Flowerpot

It was supposed to be a simple operation, an ambush, like they had done multiple times in the last war, only the target would be none other than Harry Potter.

"He has changed." was what Lucius' boy had said, a look of fear on his face. Had said that ever since that Tri-Wizard Tournament, where Harry Potter went from an akward semi-competent wizard, to a ruthless, efficient one with little mercy for those he saw as enemies.

"He didn't use his wand." Was what had been said when he broke young Malfoy's hand when the foolish boy had tried to touch his Yule date.

Potter's date. The Veela girl, an afterthought at first, thought to be wanting to use the boy's fame, or just wanting a friend, but it was reported they were very close, would disappear at times and keep secrets even from Potter's supposed friends.

He should've known something was up, ever since it was Diggory who appeared with the Cup that night, but as always, his hubris got the better of him.

He should've cancelled and apparated away as soon as he saw the vicious smile on the boy's face and the gleam of victory and bloodlust is his...weren't they green, why are they yellow?

Even Voldemort was surprised when the first thing Harry did was laugh and the throw his hand to the side and splatter Mulciber on the wall with enough force to crack it.

He wasn't holding a wand.

They didn't expect him to pull out a sword made out of red fire and cut Rabastan's head off in a single move or use it to deflect Yaxley's curse back at Flint.

It was all falling down, the boy was dodging curses as if he knew where they would come from before they were fired, Bellatrix caught him with Crucio, but the boy laughed like a lunatic and with his bare hand fried her with some kind of purple lightning.

A gesture, and Rudolphus' spine was split in two.

Darkness cloyed around Potter like a cloak, as if he was being guided by it in a deadly dance while he spun and sidestepped everything they sent at him, at times using them as shields, pulling them in front of him with a gesture or others cutting them where they stood. The close quarters of that alley should've been their advantage, not his.

His followers were lost to fear, so Lord Voldermort acted, he threw around wide area curses and for the first time something fazed the boy, his face cut by debris from an exploding curse, and then his smile was back, he screamed, and even Voldemort had tried to cover his ears as an unnatural sound reverberated through the walls and made the shadows dance.

Potter jumped, his sword pointed forward while he spun in the air, Dolohov fell to it, cut in two and Lucius was ran through, Voldemort recovered and went to cast, but, in a flash of red light, he had no wand, and no hand either.

Before he could scream, he felt something close on his throat, making him gasp, and then he was pressed to the wall, looking into Potter's now definitely yellow eyes, full of hatred, anger, and...anticipation.

Potter had a terrible smile on his face, his eyes burned as if twin flames, his hand was up as if he was the one holding Voldemort to the wall. The burning sensation in his left arm told him his left hand had been cut off too.

He didn't even speak with him, turning back to the entrance and speaking over his shoulder. "It's done, My Master."

The way he said that, with an almost loving inflection, made Voldemort distinctly alert, whoever someone like this boy would call Master was...

Clapping interrupted his thoughts as he looked towards the entrance to the alley, the pain of his cut-off hands was well under control with his Occlumency, now he had to find out how Potter had gotten those powers, and then he saw them.

One he recognized immediately, the Veela girl, Potter's lover, he had been told. Dressed in black robes, her hair in a ponytail while she half-ran towards the boy and kissed him fiercely, but it wasn't her his attention was drawn to, but to the woman that was clapping with a cruel smile.

She was dressed in white and gold, with hints of red here and there, her hair as silver as the girl's and with the same yellow, no, gold eyes, that he now noticed all three shared, the woman, taller than the two teens, walked towards him with the gait of a queen, the grace of a predator, shadows flowed around her as if cloth and liquid, the darkness almost dancing, her eyes had red rims around the gold in them, and they showed a much too cruel amusement.

"So, this is the current, supposed Dark Lord, of this planet." She said with a cruel laugh, "What a pitiful excuse, you have no right to use that title, Tom Riddle, and you're lucky," the way she said that said he was anything but, "that of my...Order I was the one who came upon you on this backwards world, my...associates would be much less merciful than I."

Voldemort snarled at her, wanting them to be done so he could seek about to make his return at some other time, he knew her type and that he wouldn't get anything useful from this conversation.

"Why, already wanting to leave my presence? I am impressed, most delight in it, and can't think of going away, well except for young Harry, who's surprisingly resistant to my charm, it's why we like him so much, well me at least, I am sure my granddaughter has other reasons."

Voldemort barely noticed the girl blush, or the familial connection, being too distracted by the fact the woman had read his completely Occluded mind.

"Oh, you think that protects your mind, how quaint, yours is a disciplined mind, child, but as I tell my Apprentices, there are many ways to bake a cake."

She laughed as she pulled out an object from her robes, a large prism, made of some kind of dark red glassy material.

"I am also aware of your little soul anchors, such a creative solution." she said, her words dripping sarcasm, "I can't recall no one of my Order who did so many of them, though. Not that it will help you, you see, Tom, we have ways to deal with that, ways that made some who thought of doing it, reconsider"

The object floated in her hand, beginning to glow with an unearthly red light and putting all three of those in front of him in sharp relief, making Voldemort feel fear for the first time that night.

"What I can say, Tom, is that you're going to be a very good teaching opportunity for my Apprentices" She laughed softly and smiled, and Voldemort paled at how truly cruel she looked then.

"Harry, Do It."

There was a hum and a flash, and Voldemort saw the world spin, before he felt the now almost familiar sensation of the horcrux magic making his wraith abandon his body. He tried to leave, to fly away from whatever that was, but a terrible force pulled him to it, tendrils of red energy spun around his misty form and dragged him inside the object.

"See, Harry and Fleur, that's how you trap the essence of some fool who has tied themselves to this plane through an object, or objects in this case."

Harry looked at the object for a few moments, as if committing it to memory, before looking up at his Master and nodding, squeezing back Fleur's hand as she grabbed his in support.

"Good, now, let's leave this planet, I tire of their backward technology and even worse people, it was charming a century or so ago, but now, the galaxy calls for us."

She turned to leave, holding the now glowing object, a misty substance encased in it, as her two Apprentices followed after her, hand in hand.

"I wonder what that old Muun is up to now."

Setting Description

Borderlanders have often witnessed and chronicled a close relationship between the world’s magic and emotions. At a festival, where a large concentration of positive emotions occurred, new plants grew, with healing properties, people had uncommonly good luck, benevolent magical beings appeared more often.

This phenomenon led to much research, innocent, and otherwise. Similarly, it was found out that a large concentration of negative emotions made it more likely that a malicious magical being appears. Harmful spells were easier to cast. This soon came to be abused, with ruthless, unscrupulous wizards and witches kidnapping people, and then using the torment they inflicted on them to twist the magic around them. This made it easier to summon specific beings and bind them to the will of the tormentor.

It was, in fact, one of such people, Andrik, forevermore known as the Abomination, that perfected this process. Driven by curiousity at the start, he experimented with drawing out intense emotions from other people and seeing what effect it had on magic. Very soon, he found out that causing suffering came easily to him. Drawing out pain, fear, hatred, self-loathing, he learned how to twist the magic of the world around him. Magical beings corresponding to the twisted charge of the area’s magic started appearing. This led to more experiments, curiousity morphing into lust for knowledge and power. Soon, one victim wasn’t enough. Having them artfully arranged in geometric shapes, Andrik became a master of inflicting pain, both physical and emotional. And he mastered calling on specific creatures soon after. Each of those creatures he bound to his will.

Andrik’s ambitions grew, and so did his army of demons. Small groups of victims were not enough anymore. Entire villages started vanishing and ever worse monsters appeared. Soon, Andrik was a threat to entire countries.

There was a coalition of kings and nobles that rose against him, but with every battle, his army grew. Soon, he was winning battles by dread alone.

A witch named Morta was desperate to save what remained of her people. Seeing the doomed struggle of the armies opposing Andrik, she knew one thing. She needed fighters that feared nothing. No living being could stand against Andrik’s monstrous army. But the dead feared nothing. Seeking information where she could, she experimented with dead bodies, until she managed to raise them. Slowly, she gathered bodies for her own army. However, while she started led by noble aspirations, pragmatism and ruthlessness soon settled in her hardened heart. Her undead soon brought her more bodies of their own volition. She cared not where they came from, more bodies were needed for her ultimate goal of stopping Andrik. If some villages had to disappear, it was necessary.

Morta soon became infamous among her people, an extremist on her way to becoming a monster. Her terrifying army proved effective, however, and Andrik’s advance was halted for the first time.

In the end, three armies met for a climactic battle, Andrik and his demons, Morta and her accursed undead, and an army of the remaining kingdoms. The magic unleashed in that battle had no equal. Fury reigned.

And fury still reigns in what is now known as the Plains of Dread. Demons and undead rise, die, and rise again. Magical storms scour the Plains. The magic unleashed centuries ago started a cascade that has yet to end. Abominations are born and die every minute. None who enter the Plains survive. Bound by their hatred and rage, the combatants of long ago still fight and kill and die, and fight again, imprisoned in a cycle without end.

About household spirits

Much like bodies of water, mountains, forests, even some individual plants have their spirits, households have those too. A lived in household is haunted, Depending on the mood or air in the household, the being that comes to live there will act either beneficially, or maliciously.

So, in a harmonious house, people will start noticing some happy coincidences. Lost things are found again. Fragile cups last through several falls, food lasts longer. Animals may greet a friendly presence that adults don't see. Children are able to see them and the beings love playing with children, often watching over their sleep and making sure that a little child does not get hurt. It is generally considered the polite thing to do to leave a bowl of milk and cookies somewhere for the little helper.

In an unfriendly home, the being is at best mischievous, hiding important things that people need, moving furniture overnight, making loud noises at night, cracking earthenware, spoiling food.

In fact, House Elves and their treatment are one of the points of contention between Borderlanders and Earthers.

The Potters

Now about the Potters in the Borderlands. Currently they are holding the title of Counts of Pale Forest. They are considered Warder Lords, because aside from their usual duties, they watch over an extremely dangerous place, making sure it is not disturbed, and that no threat leaves that place. The Pale Forest, as it is currently known, looks hostile right at first glance. The wood of the trees has an unnatural pallor and fallen leaves are usually the colour of blood. There is an unnerving silence hanging around the area, no bird are singing, the air feels heavy. The silence is occasionally broken by the crackle of the trees. If one were to enter the forest, they would hear a persistent hum coming from the trees. Walking there is difficult, the fallen leaves are slippery and tend to hide roots. Some trees even move their roots to trip an unwary traveller. Many people ended either impaled on a branch after they slipped and fell, some people vanished entirely, absorbed by the sinister trees. Boars are extremely aggressive, deer look gaunt, with a glint of malicious intellect in their eyes. Lean wolves roam in packs and are unafraid to hunt humans. Were one to venture deeper (and survive the perilous journey) they would find the ruins of an ancient city hidden between the trees.

Nobody walks the narrow streets nor inhabits the dilapidated houses. None living. Corpses fresh and ancient rise to greet the visitor, driven by a primal need to defend their home with a weapon in hand. And even should someone hide from them, their mind is assaulted by the furious spectres of warriors long since dead. Begone! Begone! Begone!

Centuries ago, the forest was witness to an atrocity, a group of adventurers heard tales of a city among the trees, hiding untold treasures. They went there, led by a bold pathfinder, and attacked the forest's denizens. Having better weapon, larger numbers, and more skilled spellcasters, the attackers quickly slew them. However, such was the need to defend their home, so passionate were their pleas to the heart of the forest, that the forest granted them their desire. The fallen defenders rose again, and again and again, until all the attackers were either slain or driven off. And since then, the Pale Forest is a twisted, hostile place.

It is the Potters' hidden shame that it was a Potter who was the bold pathfinder.

The Fair Folk

The Atlanteans were not the first to come to the Borderlands, or perhaps the Fair Folk were the original inhabitants. Over the centuries, there had been numerous conflicts between the two sides, just as there were numerous armistices. Intermarriage is not rare, yet not common. The unions of Atlanteans and the Fair Folk can produce children, though it requires magical assistance for the child to survive.

Nowadays, the Fair Folk mostly live in isolated communities, closed off either in forests or in mountains. Or perhaps the right term would be under the mountains, for through their unique magic, they had been able to carve out their own pocket realms in which they live in relative safety. They are varied, though have certain things in common. Although humanoid, they each share features of animals, with the features being inhertable in families. Thus there are clans of Winged Folk, Cat Folk, Lizard Folk, and many others. Each realm is independent, though they seem to have peaceful relations.

Their unique magic, as mentioned, is very tightly bound to nature and they especially abhor the Atlantean Dark Arts that twist nature so drastically. Most Fair Folk also posses the power of glamor and illusions, able to appear especially attractive, which they had used to devastating effect in many conflicts.

eWThe train shook underneath her feet as they passed over a bridge, but Fleur didn’t dare look through the window, not with the zooming bullets sailing over her head.

“Just give up, Frenchie, you’re surrounded!”

Fleur finished reloading her LeMat Revolver, nine cartridges, and one buckshot if they got close.

But she had no time to play defensive.

She removed her hat, her new, latest fashion hat, sighed at it, placed a bottle under it, and threw it up.

The response was immediate, so she crouched lower and peaked on the side of the wood and brick balcony she was hiding behind.

Two shots and the guard who was closer to her fell, one more and she got the arm of the one who was shooting behind a turned table.

And that’s when she saw the one with the rifle.

Fleur jumped back just in time, the loud bang reverberating through the wagon.

And then there were three other bangs in quick succession, not as loud, but she could tell the caliber was no joke.

She was surprised when she heard three bodies hitting the ground.

“Sorry gentlemen, but I have an appointment with the Mademoiselle…” a young and very British voice said.

“You fucker!” a gruff voice shouted, but there was another shot, and then another, two more bodies hit the ground.

“Huh, sneaky fellow.”

“You can come out now, Miss DeLacour, that was the last of them.”

Fleur took a deep breath, before saying, “And who are you, Monsieur? What are you doing on this train?”

She heard a chuckle, “The same thing as you, these…cultists stole some pretty valuable documents from your father’s friends in London, and I was sent to retrieve them, imagine my surprise to find the French Ambassador’s daughter involved in this.”

Merde, he knew who she was, had she been followed, had her father sent him, or one of his friends?

“How do I know I can trust you?” she reloaded her gun, and heard him doing the same.

Another chuckle, and then a sigh. “You don’t, but what I can tell is that we don’t have long before these men’s friends go through the door I blocked before coming here, and the steel safe door behind you ain’t going to open itself.”

Fleur momentarily looked behind her, the door looked sturdy with a safe combination lock, even she would take some time to open it.

Her instincts were, for some reason, telling her to trust him, so she did.

“I am coming out.”

She rose, gun in hand, and her eyes widened.

Among dead corpses was a tall young man, probably around her age, holding a Colt Navy revolver pointed at her. Brilliant green eyes momentarily looked her up, and his lips curved.

What? Can’t a woman wear pants? Did he want her to infiltrate a train with a skirt? Sure she had done so, but when she needed to shoot at people she had ripped it, now she had a scandalously short “skirt” and her riding pants under it, it was a good thing too, the heat was too much.

“Bonjour.” he inclined his head, before lowering his weapon, a moment later Fleur did the same.

“Who are you?” She asked again.

The man now bowed, he was wearing a black dress coat, a military uniform jacket under it, dark blue riding pants, and knee-high cavalry boots. She was surprised to see a third holster on him, across his chest like a bandoleer, holding another revolver.

Who walked around with three revolvers?

“Harry Potter, British Intelligence, at Her Majesty’s Service.”

Fleur’s eyebrows’ rose, “British Intelligence?”

Mister Potter smiled as he walked towards her, “We are a discrete bunch, but come, let’s open the door, no time to lose.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“You are not as discreet as you think you are, or perhaps we are just too good. But don’t worry, I don’t think anyone else followed you, that stunt at the docks, really good, almost lost you.”

He reached the door and knocked a few times, humming to himself, “At least two inches thick, very modern lock.” He knocked again near the combination dial. “Might be able to do it by the ear.”

“Let me.” Fleur passed on his side, he smelled of good cologne, sweat, and powder, she kind of liked it. “I have been opening safes since I was a child.”

At his raised eyebrow, she smiled, “A hobby of mine, my sister likes guns and explosives, I always liked mechanics, and safe cracking.”

He chuckled again stepping back and gesturing for her to proceed, “And here I thought fencing was uncommon.”

Fleur kneeled by the door and placed her ear on it, taking deep breaths and focusing.

The first click was easy, the second not so much, she heard Monsieur Potter gently placing a table to cover her from the wagon’s entrance, and then the sound of him walking some distance while reloading another revolver.

The third click finally came, and Fleur let out a little whoop and the heavy door clicked open.

“I did it!” she shouted just in time for three other men to come through the door.

She had her revolver out of the holster when three shots rang out from Potter’s revolver, and those three men fell.

Two more entered shooting, Fleur hid behind the table, shooting twice in return.

Potter turned his body, presenting only one side, a bullet zipped past him harmlessly.

Two shots, and two men on the ground.

He holstered that revolver, and took out the one on his left holster.

“You know what we’re looking for Miss DeLacour, I will hold them off.”

She nodded shakily and entered.

She gasped at the barrels pointed at her, before she realized what she was looking at.

A Gatling gun.

Gabby would be so jealous.

Both walls on the side were covered in shelves, some papers with symbols she wasn’t familiar with were also on them, the back wall had a large banner with a symbol drawn in what she hoped was dark red paint, it gave an uneasy feeling, Fleur didn’t like it.

Quickly walking to the side as she heard more shots being fired, some ricocheting off the steel walls, Fleur saw the shelves upon shelves of books in various languages, some millennia old.

Some of them gave off the uneasy feeling her father and mother had warned her about.

She quickly put on her gloves, the silver etchings on them reflecting the light of the glass lamp she turned on.

Even so, she didn’t touch anything, eyes roving, she looked to the other side, there were too many, but she was looking for papers, not books.

Then she saw the box at the end of the shelves she had been looking.

More shots.

She walked over there, and opened it, a sigh of relief coming on her face as she saw her grandmother’s handwriting. Finally.

She picked the papers carefully, placing them in the wide bag she had been carrying on her back, before seeing there were other documents under them, she narrowed her eyes and picked them up too.

More shots.

“Miss DeLacour, we really need to leave, now!”

Fleur was about to get out shooting, when she stopped and looked at the Gatling Gun.

It had a turning mechanism, and was fully loaded.

She smirked.

“Mister Potter! Open the door on my signal!”

“What?”

She sat on the small chair behind it, and place her hand on the crank.

“Now!”

Five shots rang out and the door opened fully.

Fleur smiled at the three men coming through the door, rifles and pistols in hand.

She turned the crank and pulled the trigger.

The men barely had time to take a step back before the bullets ripped through them.

Fleur stepped on a pedal and the door was just wide enough for her to swivel the gun left to right, the .308 caliber rounds penetrating the two wood walls easily, two passes, and the weapon ran dry.

She coughed as smoke filled the small compartment and she ran out of it, hand covering her mouth.

Mister Potter was taking cover behind a balcony, a wooden table turned in front of it for safety.

More than a dozen bodies had joined the ones that were there when she had entered the safe room.

He was looking at her strangely, his face flushed.

The man coughed to regain his composure, or because the smoke.

“Well…I think that was all of them.”

Fleur smiled at him, she was flushed too, hair somewhat disheveled, and for some reason, he turned to look at the door again.

“Do you have way off the train, Mister Potter.”

“As a matter of fact I do.” he pulled out a pocket watch, “they should be here by now, come on, on the other window.”

He picked up a chair and threw at it, breaking the glass, then taking a broken table leg and removing the leftover glass.

“Out of curiosity, Miss DeLacour, what was your plan?”

“Er…stop the train?” She blushed.

“Noted.” He turned back to her, “I really liked what you did with that gun, by the way.” He smiled at her and she couldn’t help herself smiling back, he had a handsome smile.

She vaguely heard the sound of horses.

Mister Potter looked out the window, and smiled, this one had a roguish side to it.

Fleur liked it.

“You ever jumped out of a moving train into a cart, Miss DeLacour?”

“Non, but I learn fast.

“That you do.”

Fleur looked out the window and saw said cart being pulled by two horses in a fast gallop, a lanky redhead was at the helm, grinning madly, a wide hat covering his face from the sun.

“Hullo Harry! Ride for two?”

Mister Potter laughed, as if all this was children’s play, maybe for him it was.

“You know it, Ron!”

“Ladies First.” He gestured to her, helping her climb up the window.

“Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine.” he whispered in her ear, making the hair in the back of her neck rise, and a small shudder go through her back.

“I know.” she said with more confidence than she felt.

She saw as the redhead drove the cart closer, and saw her chance.

She jumped, feeling the weightlessness for a scary moment, before she landed on the cart, quickly climbing over it.

“Wow, you done this before, Lady?” the redhead shouted over the sound of the train and the horses.

“Non.”

Her answer was a laugh, “You’re gonna fit right in, then. I am Ron Weasley by the way, a pleasure.”

She nodded before looking over and saw Mister Potter reading himself, before jumping.

She barely had time to feel worried as he did so, landing in a smooth crouch on the cart.

Mister Weasley snorted, “Show off.”

He guided the cart away from the train.

“Everything okay, Miss DeLacour?”

“Oui, I got the papers, and even something more.”

“Brilliant.” he smiled as they sat, the train going farther and farther away.

They looked at each other, and Fleur noticed how his eyes glinted in the sunlight, and how his skin looked tanned, probably unused to the American West’s sun.

A throat clearing got them out of whatever they were in looking at each other, and both blushed as they turned to look at a grinning conductor.

“To the train, Harry?”

“Aye.” Mister Weasley nodded and guided the cart further West, where she could a city on the horizon.

“Train, Mister Potter?”

“We’ve got our own train, and you can call me Harry, everyone does.”

She smiled at him and extended her hand, “You can call me Fleur then, ‘Arry.”

She put in a little more accent than normal, but his gulp was rewarding enough.

“You too, Mister Weasley.”

“Ron, then, Fleur, and this is good, because there are plenty of Mister Weasleys around.”

Harry laughed when Fleur looked at him, “He has a big family.” They both realized they were still holding hands, and Harry was looking at her gloves.

“Ah, Enochian and Summerian protection sigils, nice, in silver thread too.”

Fleur raised her eyebrows, “You’re not British Intelligence are you?”

They both blushed as they released their hands, though their gazes were still locked.

“Not most of the time, no, we are part of an International Order of…people concerned with the well-being of the world and it’s people.”

“Oh.”

“The Order of the Phoenix, your father knows of us, we and his associates sometimes cooperate.”

“He sent you?”

“He knows we are here by now, probably, but no, we came by ourselves, you coming, however, was a surprise. I guess Ambassador DeLacour would be surprised too?”

Fleur grinned, “I believe he knows I am here by now, probably.”

They shared a laugh.

Ron who was guiding the cart towards a small city on the horizon, looked back.

“Well, you’ll have the chance to meet some of us at the Train, Old M-er, I mean, Grandmaster Dumbledore, Neville and…” he looked at Harry with a mischievous smile, “The Lady Chang.”

Harry sighed, “Brilliant.” He didn’t seem so enthused by it.

“Lady Chang?”

Ron coughed, “Oh, well, I am sure you will get along famously, Miss- er, Fleur.”

As they rode through the desert, the sun began to set and Fleur felt her eyelids get heavy, the tiredness and action of the day catching up to her she had been up since three in the morning.

She yawned, and feeling daring, placed her head on Harry’s shoulder, feeling him placing his arm on hers to steady her better.

She had closed her eyes for a few moments before she heard Ron comment in a soft voice.

“Ten pounds say you get at least one knife thrown at you.”

“Shut up, Ron.”

Fleur slept, lulled by the soft breeze and the comforting embrace riding towards a new adventure.

Draco smirks as he points at the painting of Icarus, "See?! There can be male Veela, too! Obviously, I am -- "

Fleur glares at the irritating leetle boy and a fireball slowly forms in her hand...

" -- one of those descended from -- "

FOOMP

Draco screams as his hair is engulfed in a ball of Veela fire, "My Father will hear about this!"

The air was crisp here, atop the Pyrenean mountains. The corridors were chilly in the morning, what with their glassless windows forming elegant stone arches on one side, made of the same pale sandstone as the rest of the castle. And as the cold wind carried through, so did cold words.

“Quelle énorme salope!”

The words held contempt, and hatred, and a thousand other acrid things that had seeped out of the feminine voice along with her near shout. But there was hurt in there as well, Fleur knew. Of course she could recognize hurt, no matter how well concealed, no matter how much rage and cruelty one surrounded their hurt with. These words weren’t even meant for her, but still they stung deeply. Fleur wished she hadn’t come out of her room this morning. She wished the urge to take a walk outside in the stupid hopes that the mountain air could calm her had not won out in her morning deliberations. But what were wishes, for silly little girls like themselves?

“C’est une putain de Veela! Elle peut avoir qui elle veut! N’importe lequel de ces gros abrutis qui la suivent comme des chiens!”

It was time to walk. Away from this blasted corridor and back to her dormitory. The teachers would frown at her, the Headmistress would probably come and find her at some point come evening, but she didn’t care. School did not matter. Lessons and exams and diplomas didn’t matter. What mattered was peace, silence, and perhaps some of the Firewhiskey bottles Caroline kept tucked away under her bed (she would find out her secret cache wasn’t so secret anymore, but Fleur did not care.)

“Mais t’es conne ou quoi? Tu crois qu’elle voulait l’embrasser, ton abruti de copain? Il a essayé de lui enfoncer sa langue dans le gosier et elle l’a giflé.”

Oh no. Speaking of Caroline… But what was her friend doing here? She hadn’t seen her in their dormitory this morning, but she’d figured her friend had made a beeline for the library like she usually did most of her free mornings. This, however, was nowhere near the library, and here she was, defending her honour as if Fleur was a little damsel in distress, incapable of defending herself.

New plans had to be made. The girls a few corridors below her did not stop their argument, insults having turned to shoutings which in turn prompted more crass, violent bouts of insults. There was little doubt as to where this was all heading, and from what she could hear, her friend seemed to be facing a group of three all by herself. Fleur loved Caroline dearly, and her friend always defended her at all costs. But, well, she could be a complete dumb bitch sometimes. Not a single ounce of shrewdness or self-preservation.

Fleur started running. The situation was minutes away from exploding and, sure enough, she heard the first spells being shouted as she neared the corridor where this aggressive display was quickly unfolding. She had to duck under a red spell as she reached them, only to find Caroline standing in the middle of rubble, a shield before her as she shouted spell after spell.

“T’es vraiment la plus grosse des débiles!” Fleur yelled at her as she took her spot besides her friend. Then she pecked her on the cheek even as she threw a wandless ball of fire towards one of the cruel teenagers. “Je t’adore!”

“Miss Fleur? Miss Fleur, wake up.”

Fleur awoke with a sleepy mumble, her eyes blinking rapidly as she tried to adjust to the sudden light in her room, spilling from the now open curtains. “Mama?”

Her maid, Anna, stood over her, an apologetic smile on her face, “It's just me, miss Fleur. The Madam and Master are asking for you in the living room.”

The three year old girl struggled to a sitting position, chubby little fist rubbing at her sleepy eyes as the morning sun cast across her sheets. “Mama’n Papa?”

She held out her arms, reaching for the maid. Smiling, Anna reached forward, gathering the little girl into her arms. As she headed out of Fleur’s room and down the ornate, carpeted hallway of the Delacour Mansion, Fleur rested her head on the maid’s shoulder, little arms gripping at the woman.

Down the stairway and across the grand entrance hall, Anna carried the little girl to the west wing, stopping in front of the dark wooden door of the living room. She reached out with one pale hand, and knocked sharply on the door.

“Come in.” A melodic voice called from inside.

Pushing open the door, the maid carried the young girl into the powder blue room, embellished in gold. Fleur lifted her head from Anna’s shoulder, spotting Apolline and Sebastian Delacour stood in front of the sofa.

She twisted in the older girl’s arms, reaching for her parents, her face breaking into a cute smile, “Maman!”

In one graceful motion, Apolline stepped forward, plucking her daughter from the maid’s arms and cradling her close, placing a gentle kiss on Fleur’s brow. Fleur giggled, snuggling into her mother’s arms happily.

“Fleur,” Her father said gently, gesturing at the other two people in the room, “I’d like to introduce you to some people.”

Fleur glanced at the two adults, standing across the low coffee table from her parents. The man stood tall, taller than her dad, messy black hair framing hazel eyes, hidden behind large, round glasses. The woman standing next to him had pretty red hair, and bright green eyes. She smiled warmly at the little girl, sitting in her mother’s arms.

But Fleur’s attention was stolen by the little bundle the woman held to her chest, that shifted a little every so often.

“Wha’s that?” She said, leaning forward and pointing at the bundle.

“Oh, this is my son, Miss Fleur.’” the red-haired woman started, her smile widening, “Do you want to see him?”

Fleur nodded, leaning forward even more as the woman moved around the table, letting Fleur get a full view of the little boy’s face as he slumbered peacefully.

“This is Harry,” the woman said proudly. Leaning down, she kissed the baby boy’s forehead softly.

The boy’s brow creased, as he let out a sleepy mumble. His eyes flickered open, and Fleur saw the prettiest green eyes staring back at her for a second, before they shut, as Harry drifted back into the grip of his dreams.

“Can I keep him?” Fleur asked earnestly.

Sunlight played through the boughs of the willow as her hands played with his hair, dainty fingers running through soft, messy raven locks, as he lay, eyes shut, with his head on her lap.

She hummed, a tune of contentment and simple joy as they lay there, luxuriating in each other’s presence, amidst the meadow of flowers.

Her silvery blonde hair flowed gently in the breeze, matching the swaying of the various blossoms surrounding them.

His eyes snapped open, and Fleur was greeted with the sight of those beautiful emeralds. She smiled at him, gently, and he smiled back.

His smile lit up her world.

Harry lifted his head from her lap, glancing towards the setting sun, as she bit back a noise of discontent.

He turned to face her, a sad smile on his face, and she knew what he said before the words even formed on his lips.

“Looks like the sun’s beginning to set. I must leave if I want to make it home in time.”

Fleur pouted, “Must you? Can we not stay here for a little longer?”

He laughed, her hand clutched in his as he helped her to her feet, her elegant dress seemingly untouched by the ground, even as he dusted off his trousers.

He bent at the waist, his lips grazing the back of her hand as he stared earnestly at her, those beautiful eyes shimmering just so, and Fleur felt heat rise to her face, staining her cheeks in a faint pink.

“May this lowly villager take leave of the fair lady?” he asked, voice laced with mischief, and her her heart fluttered at his words.

She laughed, “Go on then. But only if you swear to return the next day.”

He bowed deeply, smiling. “I am afraid I can only swear to try my lady. By your leave?”

She nodded, waving as he made his way from the window, whistling as he went.

A lonely smile settled on her face as the sun crept its way down the horizon

How did Harry know he made a mistake? Well, the searing pain in his lower forearm was a pretty good indication.

Harry quickly yanked his arm out, dragging the Sword of Gryffindor out of the dead basilisk. Blood and black venom trailed down the front half of the sword before it was seemingly absorbed by the metal. Harry, however, could not afford to look at this peculiar sight as he felt the pain start to travel up his arm.

Quickly Harry looked up to assess the current situation. Tom was taken out by Fawkes who burned atop Riddle’s diary after taking a curse from the owner. Harry knew Fawkes couldn’t give him tears so soon after burning. He had read up on phoenixes after meeting Fawkes in Dumbledore’s office.

With that information observed and absorbed in record time thanks to adrenaline, Harry made a choice. Harry switched the sword to his other hand.

He settled the blade over his elbow before placing it higher past mid bicep, better safe than sorry. Before he could lose his nerve he brought the sword down.

Harry cried out around clenched teeth as he fell to his knees. The sword had only made it halfway, stopping in the bone. The angle and his own body fighting against him, deprived his swing of any power. He pulled the sword out of his arm, a sickening sound reverberating as he dislodged it from the bone.

Taking a deep breath in he brought the blade down once more, making it through the bone, but still failing to make it to the other side. His arm clung to his body by a thin piece of skin and tissue, desperate not to let go. The pain was almost worse than the Basilisk bite. The bite had been burning whereas this pain was sharp. The sensation of not being able to feel the lower part of his arm was completely alien.

[2:54 AM] With a final roar to the world above, Harry brought the sword down, finally releasing his arm from his body. Still the job was not finished. He dropped the sword after using it to stand as he grasped the stump in an effort to stem the blood flowing from it. The blade drank his blood, thirsty for more, as it returned to a pristine shine.

Harry stumbled over to the nearest torch on the wall leaving a trail of blood. He could feel it flowing down his arm and soaking his robes. When he reached the wall he fell against it using it for support as his breathing became more labored. He unhooked the torch and then pressed the metal guard against his stump cauterizing the wound. The nauseating smell of burning flesh warred with the iron like scent of blood.

It was almost funny, the burning of the torch felt eerily similar to the burning of the venom. All he wanted to do was fall asleep, but he knew if he did that he might not wake up. Slowly he got to his feet a bone-deep tiredness filling him as the adrenaline seeped from his system.

As he staggered to the exit, he saw his reflection in the water along the side. His hair was a mess; his face and clothes covered in blood and grime; and he was missing an arm, his dominant one at that. Now how was he supposed to do all of the chores at Privet Drive. It didn’t matter he was alive.

He had survived.

Fleur Delacour remembers her past life, a time when she knelt before a king; sword in her grip. A beautiful set of armor protecting her, “Your Majesty, I have arrived as requested.”

The king chuckles softly in response, “I’m glad you could make it, Fleur. I apologize for taking you so far away from your post, but I am in need of your assistance.”

“How may I be of service, King Henry?” The knight looked up at her king, determined to to do whatever it was that needed to be done.

“I’m dying, my old friend, this frail body wasn’t meant to last five winters, but God was kind enough to give me twenty! Hehe… it hurts me to tell you that this might be my last sunrise on this earth, as my oldest friend and my most faithful servant, I have one request, would you please do the honor of standing guard over my tomb?”

“How could you ask this of me?” Fleur’s voice was soft; her eyes as piercing as her ever-faithful broadsword.

“I trust no one else, especially not those in this court of mine, I am begging you, not just as your king, but as your friend, please safeguard me for as long as you wish. Be it one Winter or 200, I just want you by my side for a little while longer.“

“Be careful, my liege, you speak, almost as if you loved me; I am your sword, I am your shield, I am your weapon, until the end of Time itself. If that is your request, then I shall grant it.” Fleur whispered begrudgingly. Then; the king coughed harshly, slightly startling his personal guard, when the king put down his hand, she saw blood.

“Your majesty!” She gasped, “How long have you been coughing up blood?”

“Since last evening, I am even surprised I was able to make it to the throne room this morning, having my meetings and servants in waiting help me, was it slightly humiliating but I made it. I know, you’re probably going to scold me, but-”

“Your Highness!” A man called out. It was Johan, the royal messenger.

“What is the matter Johan?” The King coughed.

“The Boot Clan head, David, has come to the castle with a large number of ruffians, Your Majesty,”

“Did they make any demands?” Fleur interjected, now facing Johan with an angry expression.

“Yes Lady Fleur, you.” He whispered as the King continued coughing.

“Elaborate. Now!” Fleur growled as she sheathed her sword in order to not frighten the poor man too much.

“He said he wouldn’t go through with his plan of killing the King and taking the throne for himself if you accept his proposal!” The normally reserved man nearly shrieked.

“No.” Fleur stated as she grabbed her faithful sword’s handle, and stood at attention facing against her King.

“M-my Lady, please reconsider, the King cannot handle the stress of this decision, I implore you.”

“I will not leave King Henry’s side because of a foolish little boy’s lustful desire. Now go and notify the guard to get here yesterday!” Fleur shouted, leaving Johan to scamper out to fulfill his duty.

“Fleur,” Henry coughed, “you could have been nicer to Johan, he is a great friend.”

“You are correct, your Grace,” she sighed in agreement, “I will make sure to apologize to him personally as soon as Boot and his dogs are dealt with.” She bit as she focused on the throne room doors.

“I’m glad.” Henry smiled softly.

An awkward silence permeated in the throne room as the king and knight waited for the royal guard.

Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait too long as Fleur’s second in command, Uriah and forty of his men entered the throne room.

“Where are the rest of the men, Uriah?!” Fleur hissed.

“They wanted to take down as many of Boot’s mercenaries as they could and sent us to evacuate the King, the civilians have been safely evacuated.”

Henry coughed harshly once more, causing attention to be turned to him. Blood falling onto his favorite garments.

“Look, Fleur, you can be as angry with me as you want after we get the king out of here! Come on! Let’s go!”

“Fleur, everything hurts. Make it stop.” Henry whimpered as a glob of blood left his lips.

Fleur immediately rushed to his side and embraced him, for the first time in her life, breaking protocol.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, causing Fleur confusion.

“What are you sorry for, Your Highness? You’ve never slighted me in the past.”

“I’m sorry I never got to to tell you how much you mean to me-” Henry coughed once more, accidentally getting blood on Fleur’s armor. When he went to wipe it off, she stopped him.

“Save whatever energy you have left Your Highness, I beg of you.” She whispered, shocking the guard, never was the King’s Knight so gentle.

“I wanted to tell you how much I- I-” Henry tried to continue but his voice wouldn’t come out, but he felt an armored hand touch his face.

“I know, and that is why I will protect you until you have no need of me. Rest, My King. I’m sure King James and Queen Lilian are waiting for you to tell them of your many adventures.” Fleur’s voice broke, tears rolling down her cheeks. She turned to her head to see her fellow soldiers in tears as she gently placed the on the ground and closing his eyes.

“The King is Dead!” She declared, her eyes red with pain, “Join your brothers and kill Boot’s men, I’ll handle Boot and any usurpers he decides to bring along, Now, GO!”

The sun was setting when Lord Boot and his “friends” actually made it to the throne room, only the former King and knight standing guard. Boot sneered as he lay eyes upon the King, “What? Dead already Henry? How disappointing. I was hoping you would live long enough to see me consummate my union with your ever loyal knight. No matter, come Fleur, our wedding can be done as soon as you discard that horrible armor, it is unbecoming of a lady of house Boot to wear armor.”

“I don’t think you know who I am, Lord Boot.” Fleur sneered in response, “I am Fleur, Blade of Henry, and I have never known defeat. Make peace with whatever deity you have, for I shall not allow you to leave this place alive.”

———————

That is always how the dream ended, and every time she woke up, she couldn’t help but whisper, “I must find King Henry.”

Viktor Krum shook his head like a half-stunned troll, barely keeping himself upright despite the bench beneath him. He suspected his drinking partner was deriving some twisted amusement from the matter, given by the half-twist of the corners of his mouth and the look in his eyes. It was the first time that they had been able to meet in a year, as they habitually did to commemorate the Day of Dragons, the anniversary of the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament, nearly some thirty years before.

Quite how the scrawny little Englishman had developed such a capacity for alcohol that he could drink a Bulgarian under the table, Viktor could not conceive. Nor, truly, could he work out how the selfsame scrawny little Englishman had developed the ability to knock off nations. Despite how bad fighting wars of annihilation such as the Second Blood War had been, it had served to make something truly fearsome of what had already been a wolf in the skin of a lamb.

“And, ve vill drink to never fighting dragons, again!”

“Indeed.” the laconic response was accompanied by a silent toast with a stein, soon vanishing as Viktor lifted his to his lips and drained it. “I might suggest you've had enough.”

“Rubbish. Another!” Viktor would not allow the pipsqueak runt of the Triwizard Tournament to outdrink him!

“Ober, noch ein bier für mein freund.” the smirk redoubled as a fresh stein was called for.

“You know, ve should the three!” Viktor announced triumphantly. “Ve three who survived. Where is the pretty blonde one?”

Something changed in Harry's expression, not quite souring, but becoming wistful.

“It's been two-and-a-half decades since the Blood War ended.” he sighed. “We each went our own ways. That when Europe decided to copy Britain and put together a battalion of soldiers leavened with wizards, that you chose to take up my profession is more or less coincidence. Fleur, I haven't had thought about writing in many years, too much separation, too much time, too many wars.”

“Bullshit.” scoffed the Bulgarian, but chose rather than to follow up his comment, instead to slurp down more beer.

The evening progressed, with Harry slowly nursing his tankard, watching Viktor swilling beer like water in a blatant attempt to out-do him in the arena of alcohol. Finally, the Bulgarian slumped sideways into the wall, his hand falling limply from the stein's handle. Harry finally finished his tankard and stood. A few minutes later he would depart. Just as he was leaving, two men in crimson jackets passed him in the doorway.

The two younger officers of the Europäische 2. Magische Garde-Uhlanen Regiment strode in, long boots striking sharply on the bierkeller floor in unison, plumed czapkas gleaming under the lamplight. They were aware that the commanding officer of the Süd-Ost Escadron was overdue back at barracks. A dismaying discovery was soon found – the selfsame officer found, insensate, face-down in a plantpot with half a tankard of bier poured into his underclothes.

A swift investigation, carried out after giving the officer his due dignity back, revealed the name of the gentleman who had left him thus. The table reservation in the name of HJ Potter.

-x-

Her Britannic Majesty's Ambassador to the Federal Republic of Germany, Simon McDonald, was steadily settling into the job, and nothing could be allowed to interrupt his comfortably-scheduled working day. Unfortunately, fate had ignored his pleas and sent him two officers of Uhlans one older and one younger, preceeded by their moustaches. They marched in in unison with grey greatcoats over crimson tunics, blue breeches and highly polished riding boots with spurs. Their entrance caused a deal of disquiet to the security by marching in with swords at their sides.

“Bitte eingeben.” McDonald invited them as he found the two officers looming over his hapless secretary.

They exchanged glances and snapped their heels together, following him to his office. At the door, they halted, exchanging gestures inviting the other to go first. Another sharp motion and they agreed wordlessly to enter together. The bemused ambassador watched on as they took their czapkas off, tucking them under their arms, coming to the attention in front of his desk.

“Von Reiter.”

“Von Schonburg.”

“McDonald.”

“Kannst du Deutsch sprechen?”

“Ja-”

“Von Reiter, being on British territory it would be courteous to speak English.” the younger officer suggested gently.

The elder conceded with a snap of his heels and a bow of his head.

“Oh, I'm sorry, please, be seated.” McDonald gathered himself.

The younger officer pulled up a chair, von Reiter refusing to sit until they could both do so together, sitting bolt-upright.

“We wish for some information on a compatriot of yours, Herr...” von Schonburg consulted what appeared to be a table reservation card. “HJ Potter.”

“Ah yes, we'd heard he was in Berlin, an annual affair where he and an old compatriot get together and get absolutely stone blind drunk. I hope he hasn't done anything...” McDonald replied. A pair of thin smiles was his only response. “They knew each-other from his pre-army days.” he added weakly.

“He is an officer of the British Army?!” demanded von Schonburg.

“Yes, recently returned from Afghanistan.” McDonald hoped this would help smooth things over.

“Ausgezeichnet! Er ist ein Offizier!” von Reiter exclaimed.

“This is excellent news.” von Schonburg thanked the ambassador. “You have relieved us from great doubts.”

“I don't quite understand..?” McDonald asked confusedly.

“We were worried that Herr Potter might not be able to give satisfaction.” explained von Schonburg.

“Satisfaction?” he still didn't understand.

“It is understood that an officer of the Magische Garde-Uhlanen cannot demand satisfaction from an opponent who is not his equal in position and honour. However, since this Herr Potter is a British officer, he can be challenged.”

“Challenged? Whatever to?”

“To a duel, Herr McDonald, to single combat.”

-x-

“Unfortunately Ambassador, the laws are different for each side of the... divide. We have been able to refuse seven challenges on behalf of officers who do not have Brigadier Potter's particular abilities, but there remain some twenty-two other such challenges from those who are equal to him in, uh, what was it, 'position and honour' according to the codex.” the Royal Navy military attaché explained.

“Surely he cannot fight the entire magical officer corps of the Magische Garde-Uhlanen? Do they want him all at once or just one at a time.” McDonald shook his head as they strode down the decorated corridor.

“I understand that our German friends understand the matter, and will draw lots for the right to have the honour of being named Principal and Seconds.” Captain Godette shook his head.

“And can Brigadier Potter not offer an apology, or at least conciliation?” McDonald sighed.

“He attempted to offer conciliation, but in doing so his position of being old friends with Herr Krum was interpreted as further insult to the honour of the regiment. They will now, according to their codex, refuse any further attempt at apology.” explained the Captain. “Furthermore, while Brigadier Potter might leave, it would be regarded as a stain on his honour, ours, and damaging to relations on that side of the divide.”

“So politically, diplomatically and militarily, we cannot avoid a duel.” the ambassador ground his teeth. “Has anyone reminded them that this is not the German Empire and that the Kaiser is dead?”

“Ambassador, I would be careful, we are in their headquarters, and I do not wish to arrange two duels any more than I do one.” Godette remonstrated. “The divide left one side of the German nation with older traditions.”

They reached the dark-polished double doors of the officer's quarters, two Uhlans pulling the doors open and coming smartly to attention, admitting them to a space which was like the drawing rooms of a state suite of any great house, just with a preponderance of lances and sabres on the walls and on stands, and a great deal of crimson fabric, dark-stained wood and military trophies.

A round table was arrayed with decanters, glasses and ash trays, and about it were sat three officers of the Uhlans, the Oberst commanding, Rittmeister von Reiter and von Schoburg. The three stood sharply, coming to the attention with a snap of their heels as the ambassador, military attaché and a secretary from the embassy were admitted.

“Ambassador, ein vergnügen.” the Oberst welcomed them. “I have asked Rittmeister von Reiter to lead our side of making the arrangements for this affair, I will sit in on this meeting, so that, should I be needed, I can act as mediator.”

“Thank you.” McDonald could appreciate the niceties even in such a surreal situation as this.

“May I have the Codex, Herr Rittmeister?” requested von Schonburg, receiving it in a stiff, formal fashion. “This is our Ehrenkodex, heavily based on the work of Maestro Cavalliere Barbasetti, Kapitan Godette, the 'Code of Honour' observed by all duellists. We thought you might not be familiar with it. It will provide the framework for the affair.”

Then the older Uhlan spoke up, having polished his monocle and smoothed his moustache.

“We have permission to offer to you, for the site of the duel, the gymnasium here at the barracks of our Regiment.” von Reiter told McDonald.

Godette was halfway through opening his mouth when McDonald nodded and said; “We agree.”

The Germans looked triumphant and Captain Godette quietly furious.

“Regarding sabres. We are willing to agree to the principals bring a selection of sabres of their choice, and to make a mutual agreement to use the same or similar weapons, being of equal length, hand protection and weight.” von Schonburg took over.

“I understood that the weapon of choice of a wizard was magic?” McDonald was confused.

“It is the right of the challenged party to name the weapons, or the place of the duel.” came the resigned response from Godette.

“So when I agreed to use the regiment's gymnasium...” McDonald suddenly realised.

“I apologise for the subterfuge on the part of my officers, Herr Ambassador.” the Oberst offered. “It was discovered exactly who Herr Potter is, and none of my men wished to exchange spells with a man who has proven capable, magically, of dismantling battalions of 'Hit Wizards' as a mere teenager.”

“A trick unbecoming of your regiment.” McDonald scowled, furious that he had fallen for this sleight of hand. The Oberst just bowed his head. “Besides, wouldn't you be using Mensur schlager?”

“We are a cavalry regiment, Herr Ambassador.” von Reiter admonished. “The choice is cavalry sabres.”

“Very well. We will provide a selection of sabres, to be agreed upon by the Principals at the hour of choice.” Godette agreed. “I expect that they should be covered at the tip, to avoid the matter resulting in manslaughter.”

“Agreed.” the Oberst stepped in. “On a similar line of thought, you will bring your own doctor, of course and we shall bring ours. All fighting parties will be inspected by both doctors prior to the combat. Furthermore, the codex specifies that it is advisable a few hours previous to the duel, to take a bath. This reduces any risk of infection of the wounds.”

“There should be some degree of protection.” the ambassador requested, seeing von Reiter and von Schonburg exchanging looks. “I do not want to see a man disembowelled over this matter.”

“Mesh goggles, gauntlet and a padded waistcoat or vest with gorget, Rittmeister?” proposed the Oberst.

“It is... acceptable.” von Reiter agreed reluctantly.

“We are now in a position to announce the name of our fellow officer, who will fight Brigadier Potter. Oberstleutnant Theodor Kretschmar-Schuldorff.” von Schonburg continued, von Reiter following on; “His card.” the older officer proffered a neatly printed card. “We wished to find an officer of sufficient rank to meet Herr Brigadier Potter on equal terms, but there is none such, and since Herr Oberst recused himself from the matter.”

“The choice is acceptable.” Godette agreed.

“Seconds?” asked the Oberst.

“I am willing to stand second to Brigadier Potter.” Godette decided. It was no use passing the buck when it would inevitably return to him.

“Very well.” the Oberst agreed. “Herr Ambassador, perhaps you and I should stand as officiants for our respective principals?”

McDonald considered it. “Agreed.”

“Have you gentlemen any suggestions regarding choice of leader for the duel?” the Oberst continued, seemingly wishing to make amends for the subterfuge.

“My opposite number at the French Embassy suggested the French Army's Sabre Master who is teacher at both the Écolemilitaire de Saint-Cyr and the École de Cavalerie at Saumur.” offered the military attaché. “The officer in question can be here tomorrow.”

“It is acceptable.” von Schonburg stated.

“We agree.” von Reiter added. “His name?”

“Her name, Colonel Delacour.”

-x-

“Here's our man now.” announced Godette as Brigadier Potter walked in, Atholl-grey greatcoat damp about the hems.

“Couldn't have arranged a better time than sunrise?” Harry asked grumpily.

“Given that you cannot eat before fighting, I thought it best to get it over with early.” Godette shrugged.

“The blood also thickens with the cold and clots faster.” the doctor added. “I will ask that you do a few stretches and movements, I will also take your pulse, hear your lungs and check your blood pressure.”

“Very well.” Harry sighed.

“Have you a first choice for your sword, Brigadier?” asked Captain Godette.

“Yes, the Wilkinson 1845-bladed Heavy Cavalry Officer's Sword.” replied Harry.

“I will convey that to the officiant and to our opposite numbers.” Godette nodded.

“Who's the officiant?”

“An officer from the French military schools who serves as sabremaster.” the attaché replied.

“An important role no doubt.” the sarcasm was laid on thick.

“It's a role of honour more than anything, and one for an officer in their last months of service.” he turned about, going to liaise with the Uhlans.

The French officer approached, splendid in dark-blue tunic and crimson breeches, kepi at a slightly roguish angle. Harry's eyes widened as he recognised the face under the peak of the kepi.

“This is Colonel Delacour, on loan from the Saint Cyr and Saumur military colleges. She will officiate the affair.” McDonald introduced them. “Colonel Delacour, Brigadier Potter.”

A faint smile appeared with the salute, which Harry returned.

“Ah yes, Colonel Delacour and I have met before.”

“Try not to provoke any further duels Potter.” the ambassador sighed.

“Brigadier Potter and I 'ave always been able to resolve our differences... amicably.” Colonel Delacour gave an innocent smile, the ambassador running a hand across his eyes. “Though I am surprised as to who the offended party is.”

“He's not.” Harry rolled his eyes. “The entirety of his regiment decided to take offence on his behalf. Last I heard he was still recovering from alcohol poisoning.”

The Frenchwoman rolled her eyes, but decided to get on with her duties.

“As French is the Lingua Franca, if you will pardon the pun, I will officiate with the terms 'en garde', 'prêts', 'allez' and 'arrêt', do you understand?” she asked.

“Naturally.” Harry replied.

“I will ask your doctor to confirm your fitness to fight, examine your protective equipment and arms before we begin.” Fleur continued. “The combat will be up to three exchanges, which each may last one-hundred seconds or until either party withdraws to beyond fencing distance and raises their off hand. At three exchanges, the offended party may call that they are satisfied. Otherwise the fight will be until either party yields.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of a party of Uhlans, marching in line, their boots striking the floor in perfect unison. A splendid sight in their full uniforms, riding boots and plumed czapkas.

“The Regiment's Oberst, your opponent Herr Oberstleutnant Kretschmar-Schuldorff, Rittmeister von Reiter and Oberleutnant von Schonburg.” McDonald informed him. “Your man's got a record of being a reasonably good swordsman. Academic and fraternal fencing admittedly.”

“We'll get the measure of him soon enough.” shrugged Harry, going through the exercises ordered by the doctor.

“Remember, Fleur Delacour”, Harry Potter-Black growled menacingly, his emerald orbs glowing killing curse green, “Do not dare cross me, or any of my girls, unless you’re ready to feel the entirety of the wrath the heir of House Dracula can bring upon you.”

Fleur shuddered, shrinking back as the basilisk scale armored young man advanced, scared out of her mind yet unable to stop the thrill of excitement that shot through at the sight of his handsome features, even as they twisted in cold anger.

Her back hit the wall, and his muscled arm reached out to the wall, the six foot tall teen pinning her in place. His voice was low, dangerous, “Know this, Fleur Delacour. I do not forgive, and I do not forget.”

Fleur shivered, biting her lip.

She breathed in deeply once, twice, trying to keep her composure….

And failed miserably, doubling over, snickering wildly as Harry backed off, his arms crossing as he frowned.

“I’m… I’m sorry ‘Arry,” the silvery blonde veela choked out amidst giggles, “But the way you said that… merde.”

Harry pouted, “Well, you’re the one who wanted me to roleplay… whatever the hell this character is. God, I was cringing so hard.”

“No, no”, Fleur said, briting back her laughter as she straightened up, “You were doing good! Lets keep going, I’ll stay in character, I promise.”

“Okay, okay” Harry said, sighing, as he moved back into position, his arm out against the wall, pinning her in place once more, “Just… remind me. Who is this character again?”

“Oh, its just you but edgier,” Fleur said.

And then promptly fell over laughing at the look of horror on her boyfriend’s face.

Fleur picked at the ground, hoping to find the first victim of the day. She picked and picked some more, until her beak struck guey flesh. With the fervour of a lioness, she pulled and pulled at the squishy creatures, the insides a sweet promise of sustenance. Streching her fragile body, Fleur stood on the shrap claws of her feet before the rubbery food gave in and slapped against her skull, numbing her sense for but a few moments.

"Foolish worm," she snapped, flapping her wings and sqeaking angrily. "Why would you dare resist?"

The worm, baring the tiny construct of a pair of lenses and the most vivid green murky eyes, stared her down with fury. "Has no one ever told you not to wake the sleeping, shitty flying rat?"

Aghast by the foul language, the majestic blue avian speciman rose to full height and spread her wings as far as her limbs permitted, towering over the her food with malice dripping from her short tongue.

"You've blundered your last, worm."

"My name is Harrison Maximus Longus Potter," the slim creature grunted. "Do not call me worm, you foul French pest of a hovering shit bomber."

Silenced by the second outburst of foul language, Fleur reeled a step back, her feathery wings faltering unevenly. A worm, a mere supply of sustenance would dare speak to her like this, when nobody before had possessed the nerve to do so before him.

Denying it would be akin to a lie. The worm she had intended to eat, had instead piqued her interest.

"What would you have me do instead, Potter," she inquired with a smirk, silently relaying that she thought little of his other names. "Let you go when I need your flesh to feed my bodice?"

"It's food you want?" Harry asked instead of an asnwer, his eyes boring into her with something she thought looked like treachery.

"Yes," she offered curtly.

"Then wait here until I return." He begun slithering backward and slowly but surely digging into the ground. "My cousin would please you far more in that regard."

Impressed by the continued bravado of the raven coloured worm, Fleur nodded in curiousity. "Bring them to me and they better not disappoint. If not, I will find you, Potter."

"They won't."

The first thing Harry ever remembered being told was that he was a hero. According to his nurse, he’d saved the world.

He didn’t feel much like a hero then, though. He spent every waking hour in the children’s ward in St Mungo’s magical hospital, and he doubted greatly that heroes, even child-heroes, didn’t get to go home and spend time with their family. He knew that heroes were brave, but he doubted that heroes had to go through the pain he did every day and be brave. He doubted that heroes needed potions every hour to make sure that they were alive, or that they had days where they couldn’t lift their own arms because they were so weak.

Heroes were meant to be strong, after all. Harry wasn’t strong. He could barely stand up by himself, and he couldn’t walk very far without a nurse beside him to make sure that he didn’t fall.

It wasn’t just his own body that told him otherwise, either. It was the way that everyone there seemed to look at him. In the stories he’d read, people were inspired by heroes and they looked at them in awe for what they’d accomplished. People don’t seem very impressed by him, though. Even if they say what he did was impressive, they mostly look sad whenever they see him. Even Nurse Johnson, who always made sure he had new books to read and brought him his first ever birthday cake when he turned six, still had worry lines around her eyes whenever she looked at Harry.

He was not popular like heroes were, either. He didn’t have many friends. He’d tried to make friends with the other ones on the ward, but they’d leave quickly before he could get a chance to get to know them. They only had broken arms or poorly stomachs. After they were better, they got to leave.

Harry wasn’t allowed to leave, not that he’d be able to try to. They said that the dark magic of the killing curse had tried to kill him, but he’d been too strong and too brave to die to it though, so it had tried to poison him. The dark magic stayed in his body and tried to weaken him, but he was told that he was fighting it and he was winning. He didn’t feel like he was winning, though.

By the time that he was ten, his life became more clear.

He’d never really gotten better, but he’d not gotten worse for a while.

Harry came to realise that the nurses had told him what the rest of the wizarding world believed. He’d grown to become quite famous through his survival of the killing curse. There were books about him, about his family’s sacrifice, though none of them seemed to mention that he was living in St Mungo’s. Harry didn’t blame them for that, as it was hardly the life he’d want a hero to have.

He’d known his parents weren’t alive for a long while by then, but he wondered what had happened to the rest of his family. The hospital was never a fun place, but he would have thought that, if he were someone’s cousin or nephew or grandparent, he’d have visited them.

When he’d asked Nurse Johnson she had told him, with eyes older than he’d ever seen them, that he didn’t have any other magical family members. That just as no-one else seemed to stick around on the ward with him for very long, none of his family members were with him either.

The world, he learned, was not a kind place to him. So he left it as often as he could.

He couldn’t escape his body’s pain through exercise or other people, but he could escape through books. He read all the muggle world’s fantasies and all the wizarding world’s too. He read about new worlds and worlds totally different from his own quiet, lonely one. He liked reading stories about people being friends and solving mysteries together and making each other laugh. He wanted to know what a friend was like to have so that if he got the chance to make one, he’d not mess it up.

He liked reading about magic, too. He thought he might not like it, or might be scared of it after what it’d done to him, but he realised that magic was for more than just for harming people. It kept him alive after all through his potions. He’d liked to wish about going to Hogwarts, after hearing how amazing it was and how beautiful the castle was said to look, but he doubted he’d ever get to go.

Even if he could survive living outside the ward, he’d not really done any magic that he could remember. His nurses said that he had magic, that if he didn’t he wouldn’t have survived, but he doubted he really had enough to learn in a place as special as Hogwarts. He’d love to though.

Harry shouldn’t have looked forward to his eleventh birthday, but he couldn’t help it. He held a stupid hope that, on that day, suddenly everything would turn out okay. He’d wake up with a healthy body and his family would be back and there’d be a letter waiting beside his bed. He’d get to leave his life inside the hospital and have a normal one like everyone else.

He didn’t get his wish, obviously. He still couldn’t stand up for very long on his and his family was still gone. There was no letter waiting for him either, but he did get a visitor for the first time in his life.

It wasn’t Professor Dumbledore, with his grey beard and his strange robes, but instead it was a younger adult that came to visit Harry. He wore a brown suit to match his brown hair, and his clothes were not in the best of condition, not nearly as pristine as the nurses’ robes.

And, as the older man approached Harry, he realised that the man had scars on his face, just like Harry did. They weren’t totally similar, as the man had several scratches around the edges of his thin face and Harry only had one, which jagged from his forehead down to the top of his cheekbone, but it was nice to share something in common with someone.

“Happy birthday Harry,” the man said, with a kind voice and kind eyes. “I’m Professor Remus Lupin, and I work at Hogwarts as the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

“Hello, Professor,” said Harry with unconcealed excitement, raising his arm to a slight wave. “Am I getting my letter today?”

Professor Lupin seemed to fold in on himself then. “Hogwarts will have a place for you, Harry. But, with your condition being as it is, it wouldn’t be safe for you to go just yet.”

Harry swallowed, sadness prickling behind his eyes. “I understand, Professor,” he said, quietly.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I really am,” Professor Lupin replied, just as quietly. “I have a present for you,” he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out what looked like a book covered in wrapping paper that was folded perfectly neatly. “I know it doesn’t make up for the news, but I thought you might like to have it.”

Professor Lupin handed the gift to Harry, staring at Harry expectantly as he held it rather than try to unravel it and open its contents.

“I can’t tear the paper,” Harry told him. “My hands shake too much.”

Remus gave a small smile, before he pulled out his wand and cast a charm onto the present, the wrapping paper simply untangling itself by magic. Harry gasped softly at the sight; he didn’t get to see much magic in the hospital, save for the medical spells that the nurses used to check on him.

The gift, Harry learned, was not a book. It was a photo album. Harry didn’t look through it then, but he did look at the picture on the front. A man and a woman, young and happy, holding each-other on their wedding day. The woman had red hair but his eyes, and the man had brown eyes but his hair.

“Your Mum and Dad loved you very much,” Professor Lupin said, with a voice more confident than Harry had heard from him yet. “They were wonderful people. They were great friends to me when I was younger, and they always helped anyone that asked or needed their help.”

Harry felt guilty that these wonderful people gave their lives just for him to live in a hospital.

“You knew my parents, Professor?” Harry asked all of a sudden, his green eyes brightening.

“I did,” Professor Lupin confirmed with a nod. His eyes held discomfort and so Harry didn’t ask the question he wanted to. He didn’t ask why they’d never met before. Remus’ eyes searched Harry’s room, looking at all of the books that were on his shelves and stacked beside his bed. “Your mother loved to read too.”

“What kind of books?” Harry asked eagerly, sitting up in his bed despite the strain it took to do so.

“She liked to learn about Charms,” Professor Lupin told him. “She used to read every book on the theory of Charms that she could find, and she spent hours in the Hogwarts library trying to learn as many spells as she could,” Remus looked up to him, then. “You know Harry, just because you aren’t going to be studying at Hogwarts, that doesn’t mean that you can’t study just like other people your age. If you’d like me to, I could send you all of the books that students study, and if you have anything that you’re interested in, I’ll do my best to find you a book about it. Then, once you come to Hogwarts, you’ll be able to catch to your peers in no-time.”

“I’d love that,” Harry said, smiling, and happy for the first moment in a long time. “Professor?” He looked to Harry expectantly. “Do you really think I’ll be able to go Hogwarts?”

“I know you will, Harry,” the Professor replied. “You’re so strong, and you just need to keep being strong and you’ll get better.”

And, though he did not know why, Harry did feel strong. He felt like he could better. He had a great reason to, too.

So for the next year, he read the books that the Professor sent to him and tried to will his own body to health and, whether it be by magic or his condition healing, he did start to get better. He could walk by himself for the first time in his life and he could lift some of his books without Nurse Johnson casting a feather-light charm onto them. He grew a little bit too though he was still small, no bigger than any of the six-year-olds that came in for flu vaccinations. He could eat more than he could before too and so he gained some weight that his body desperately needed.

Professor Lupin came on his twelfth birthday, just as he had the year before. Harry was not strong enough then, either, but the Professor said that Harry looked far healthier than he did before, which made him happy. That year, Harry was allowed to go out of the hospital for the first time. He went to Hyde Park with Nurse Johnson and he was allowed to have an ice-cream. They went to a cinema after that, and he was allowed an ice-cream. And, they went to Buckingham Palace after that and he was allowed an ice cream then, too.

Despite his excursions, Harry wasn’t surprised when Professor Lupin said that he would not be able to come to Hogwarts, on his thirteenth birthday. His tremors had gotten worse in the winter and, despite a slight growth spurt, he was still half the size of the Professor’s slight frame.

Thankfully, in that year his body grew enough so that he was of the same height as most eleven-year olds. The tremors that plagued him did not go away, though they stabilised so that he could write legibly, though poorly. He was strong to survive a hug without wheezing too, which Nurse Johnson celebrated by giving him one. Harry enjoyed it, despite the unfamiliarity.

And, on his fourteenth birthday, Professor Lupin came not with a book, but with a letter.

...................................................................

“How are you feeling?” asked Nurse Johnson of Harry, as he stood at the edge of his bed for what would likely be the last time. If he could survive a year at Hogwarts, then he would no longer need the use of St Mungo’s care, after all.

Harry’s smile was earnest.

“Excited,” he said, turning to look at her. “I’ve waited a really long time for this.”

The corners of the nurse’s eyes crinkled, an odd look floating within them. “I’m so proud of you.”

Harry looked down to the ground. He didn’t know how to take compliments, and certainly not ones from people he liked as much as he liked Nurse Johnson.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” Harry told her. “Could we go to King’s Cross now?”

Nurse Johnson nodded and so Harry ushered himself out of his room for what felt like the last time. The walls and floor were bare of all of his books, and his clothes, small in number though they were, were packed into his trunk and made it too heavy for him to pull with any ease.

Harry didn’t know what to make of how he felt, as he left. The hospital, though it kept him alive, in his mind had been his cage for a long time. While he was grateful for the support of its staff, he could not look upon it with any great joy. He’d spent most of his life thinking he would never escape and he couldn’t be anything but happy that he had.

Nurse Johnson led the pair of them to the fire-entrances of the hospital, having deemed Harry healthy enough to survive using it. Harry had only ever used the floo-system once before, on the summer’s journey to Diagon Alley, and he did not greatly enjoy it. He was unsurprised to discover that he didn’t enjoy the journey to the wizarding entry of King’s Cross either.

However, as he dusted himself off and took a look at the wizarding side of platform nine-and-three-quarters, he found himself too stunned for words. The fire he’d fallen from deposited the pair of them into a sea of Hogwarts students and there was something brilliant about being immersed in it all.

He had no doubt that, for most of the people there, the sight would be totally mundane - even most of the first-years. But Harry had never known a world so lively, so magical as the one that stood before him. Summoning charms flew through the air, taking forgotten luggage and, in some cases, forgetful siblings. He couldn’t wait to be part of it.

Most of the people there wore their own robes, or their own muggle clothes, and not the school jumper and trousers that Harry wore. He’d thought that he ought to have felt odd about sticking out in such a way, but any embarrassment he might’ve felt couldn’t last very long with the excitement that filled him.

“I’m sad to see you go, Harry, but I’m so happy you’re able to,” Nurse Johnson said, her eyes crinkling as she looked at him. “You’re going to find friends and do everything you’ve wanted to do,” she met his eyes for a moment, before looking away as hers threatened to tear. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise, Nurse Johnson,” Harry told her. She swept him into a fiercely warm hug.

“I better let you go,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, before she pulled away from him, though her arms still rested upon his shoulders, her eyes meeting his. “If you need anything, you know you can write to me. My daughter is still at Hogwarts and I’ve told her about you, so you have someone looking out for you inside the school too.”

Harry hugged her a final time. “Goodbye, Nurse Johnson.”

“Goodbye Harry.”

Harry allowed himself a moment more with the nurse, before he turned away from her and made his way onto the train, offering a wave back to her as he found the doors to the nearest carriage and walked in amongst the masses that were bound for Hogwarts. He fought to savour that feeling, of being amongst those just like him, amongst his peers.

He’d read about the Hogwarts Express, and how it magically transported the luggage that was placed in its holdalls straight into the dormitories, though that knowledge did nothing to aid in the physical struggle of heaving his small trunk into the overhead storage. His excitement had allowed him to forget his own body for a moment, though as his trembling hands could barely lift the trunk off the ground, such forgetfulness was soon forgotten.

Around him, he watched other students lift their bags with ease, or levitate them with a wave of their wand. Harry would’ve done the same but he didn’t quite trust his own ability to do so given that, even though he was fourteen, he was still yet to cast a spell himself and he did not want the first time to do so to be in public in case it went wrong and he made a fool of himself.

He knew the theory of the levitation charm - he probably knew the theory as well as anyone his age - but the last thing he wished to do was show himself to be any different than everyone else. There was no doubt that he was different, and Harry would never lie to himself to think otherwise, but he didn’t wish to demonstrate those differences. He just wished to blend in and be normal.

Harry would succeed in, he thought, if he could just lift his trunk, for God’s sake.

“Would you like some help?” asked a voice to his left. The sound robbed him of his focus and he dropped his trunk, though his own body could stand to take some of the blame for that, too, as it sagged with relief as the trunk slammed noisily onto the floor.

Harry looked to his left, and then upward, to meet the eyes of the person who’d spoken. He found a boy, older than Harry, who looked down to him kindly, though not with any pity. The older boy’s eyes traced the line of the scar that ran from his forehead to the eyelid of his right eye, though he only did so once before he returned to look at Harry properly.

Harry nodded once, and seemingly instantly the boy had his wand in his hand. Without a word, he levitated the trunk above them and into the overhead storage. Harry fought the urge to gasp the display of ability. Other than Professor Lupin, he’d never seen anyone cast a spell silently.

“I’m Cedric Diggory,” the boy said, offering a hand to shake which Harry took. The handshake was slightly firmer than Harry’s arm could comfortably handle, which Cedric immediately noted and corrected. “I’m in Hufflepuff.”

“I’m Harry,” replied Harry, quietly.

Cedric smiled. “This is your first year at Hogwarts then, Harry?” he asked, turning his shoulder away from Harry and leading him toward the train compartments. “Looking forward to it?”

Harry couldn’t stop a smile from forming on his face. “Definitely.”

The two of them walked through the train in search of an empty space. Despite the leisurely pace, Harry really had to fight to keep up with older, taller boy, though he did not wish to show himself to be doing so.

In the few times he’d gone out it had been with Nurse Johnson, who was not a great deal taller than Harry and who’d made a direct effort to stop every so-often and point out the mundane sights that Harry had never seen before, giving him a moment to catch his breath. But, if he was to be at Hogwarts, he wouldn’t have the nurse taking care of him. He’d have to take care of himself, and if walking was to be too much, he should’ve stayed cooped up in his hospital bed. So, he resolved himself and continued on.

Thankfully, Cedric soon found a compartment for Harry and so their journey ended. Harry sank happily into a seat.

“Is there anything you’re wondering about?” Cedric asked. He sat down across from Harry, though his back did not meet the chair’s cushions.

Harry nodded. “I was wondering about the sorting?” he ran a hand through his hair. “I read about the houses and everything, but none of the books ever mention how they choose which house you go into.”

“You’ve managed to pick the one thing I’m not allowed to tell you,” Cedric said, laughing. “First-years aren’t allowed to know about that. It’s tradition.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m not a first-year though, am I?”

“It’s still your first year at Hogwarts though, isn’t it?” Cedric asked rhetorically, not budging. He smiled, amused. “It’s nothing difficult or embarrassing, I promise,” he stood up suddenly. “I’m sorry to leave you, but I have to go to the prefects’ meeting now, Harry. But, if there’s anything you need, I’ll do my best to try and help,” he pulled open the compartment door. “Good luck for this year, Harry. I hope you end up in Hufflepuff.”

Cedric left him with a departing wave and the sound of the door slamming shut, then Harry was alone again. The prospect didn’t sadden him as much as it once did, though, for he knew that there were good things to come. The train’s whistle sounded, and Harry looked through the window to find Nurse Johnson. He waved to her as the train began to move, though soon she disappeared from his sight.

He’d never been on a train before, though he found the feeling to be quite relaxing, if slightly odd to get used to, especially as he’d chosen by accident to face the opposite direction as to where they were going. To fill the time, Harry got his wand out and thought to make use of the fact that he had hours to himself, and he was at last finally able to do magic.

He recalled Cedric’s hand motion; a motion he’d seen in his textbooks a thousand times. He pointed his wand toward his bag on the ground, his hands tremoring, and with a swish and a flick he spoke the words he’d read so many times before. “Wingardium Leviosa.”

To his own great amazement, he could feel the beginnings of something flowing through him beginning at his chest and travelling down his arm until it passed through his fingertips. Then, the bag that sat upon the floor begin to rise gently, slowly, until it sailed above Harry’s eyeline and hit the roof of the train compartment with a muted thud.

Harry gave a thought for the magic to stop, and the bag fell the moment he did so under the suddenly-returned force of gravity. Harry found himself breathless, not out of exertion as he had been before, but out of shock. He couldn’t believe that it was he himself had managed to cause the bag to float.

Harry had known that he possessed magic, and he’d felt it before at Ollivander’s shop when he bought the very wand he used then, but to think that all of a sudden he’d managed to actually use was astounding. He’d waited so long to use it, and he at last could.

He did it again and again, pointlessly raising the bag into the air until he found himself ever-so-slightly light-headed, feeling as though he’d stood up too quickly. That, Harry decided, would be quite enough excitement for one journey. The rest of the journey was a silent one, with Harry’s nose buried into a book about defensive Charms that Professor Lupin had bought him last Yule. Harry couldn’t focus much on the words though, for his mind was entirely too preoccupied with the feeling of magic passing through him and the friends he hoped to make.

A knock on the door of his compartment shook him from his thoughts, though, and the noise heralded the return of Cedric from his prefects’ meeting. He opened the door, though only poked his head through the gap.

“I was just wondering how you were getting on?” he asked, his voice quiet though clear in the silence of Harry’s carriage.

“Really good,” Harry replied, earnest. He didn’t tell him why, though. The last thing someone as talented and competent as Cedric needed to hear was how amazing the feeling of a first-year charm was, especially from a fourteen-year old of all people. “How long is it until we get to Hogsmeade?”

“An hour or so,” answered Cedric. His focus drifted away from Harry suddenly, his eyes looking down into the corridor of the train beyond Harry’s sight. “Hi Angie. Good summer?”

“Not bad, Diggory,” a girl’s voice answered. Said girl quickly drifted into Harry’s view, her face oddly familiar, though he could not point out why. “What’re you doing out here?”

Cedric shot a glance to Harry, then offered Angie a crooked smile. “Just talking with a friend,” he said. Harry fought not to smile stupidly.

She peered into Harry’s compartment, meeting his eyes for a moment before her eyes traced the line of Harry’s scar just as Cedric had done, before her eyes widened. “Harry Potter?” she asked, his name sounding familiar to her voice. Harry nodded. “You know my mum!” She walked confidently toward Harry, with a hand offered. “My name’s Angelina Johnson.”

Harry shook her hand, her grip gentle. “Nice to meet you.”

“I tried to get mum to let me visit you, but she never let me,” Angelina said, her eyes oddly apologetic. “Said it was too dangerous.”

Had she asked when he was younger, it likely would’ve been. His body wouldn’t have been able to handle any infection or flu that a stranger might have brought, so the only ones allowed to visit him in his youngest years were the nurses that brought him food and potions. He’d been eight before he was allowed outside of the ward and into the hospital’s apothecary garden and only then for a short while.

“There wasn’t much to do,” Harry told her, trying to sound nonchalant. He knew from the books that he’d read that nonchalant people were cool, and cool people generally were popular. From the soft look in Angelina’s eyes, a look she shared with her mum, he didn’t succeed.

“How does your mum know Harry?” asked Cedric, his eyebrows bunching together though his voice was pleasant.

“Work.” Angelina told him quickly.

Cedric still held a curious look on his face. “Doesn’t your mum work at ‘Mungo’s?”

Harry sighed, a spike of worry going through him as Cedric began to join the dots. He knew that people would find out about his life at some stage, but he didn’t quite wish for it happen so soon, and especially not for someone as popular as Cedric undoubtedly was to find out, either. He’d likely tell everyone he knew, which was probably everyone, and they’d all look at him with either pity or disgust or both.

Angelina looked apologetically at him, before she turned to Cedric with a sharp look in her eyes. “You can’t tell anyone,” she urged. “It’s not your secret to tell.”

Harry smiled slightly, grateful at the thought. “It doesn’t really matter though, does it?” He looked at himself for a moment. “Other people will work it out. It’s not as if I look like any other fourth year.”

An irritating amount of sympathy flashed through both of their eyes. There was little they could do to refute what he said, though. If he walked in with the first years, he’d not stick out from them by height. The rest of the world would soon enough know that their hero wasn’t really a hero. He was just a weak child.

Harry just had to hope that there were some people that were not too disappointed and might want to be his friend.

“You two probably have other people to talk to, and I’d quite like to read my book, so you don’t have to stay,” he told them, the tremor in his hands growing worse as he spoke.

They were older, and no-doubt popular. Angelina was only talking to him because her mum told her to, and Cedric was just being polite because he pitied a boy too weak to even lift his own trunk or use the easiest spell in the world. They were not likely to ever be his friends.

“Are you sure?” Angelina asked, her eyes still soft. She looked at him in the same sad way her mum often did.

“I’m sure,” Harry said, with a short look up to the two of them, before he picked up his book again. “It’s a good book.”

They both laughed, which Harry was happy to hear despite himself, and left him to his book.

With any luck, Harry thought in the silence, the novelty of him being at the school would disappear quickly and he’d soon be a normal member of the crowd.

The train’s whistle sounded before Harry realised the time had passed, and he was soon following the throngs of people clad in robes out of the train. He knew that Professor Lupin would be waiting for him at the platform as the man had wrote to him and said as much, and he found the man stood beside what looked like a giant, the two of them directing the first-years to line up near them.

The professor met his eyes and offered him a slight, kind smile. “Harry!” He called out. “How was your journey?”

“Good.”

“Good,” Professor Lupin replied, with a nod. “Now, you’ll just have to line up with the first years and you’ll get sorted. Is that alright?”

Harry didn’t really know why the professor thought it was necessary to meet him at the platform to tell him that, as he’d assumed as much, but he nodded nonetheless. Harry ran a hand through his hair so that his fringe covered most of his scar, not wishing for any questions, and joined the line of first years that stood before the two Hogwarts professors.

“Righ’ then, firs’ years follow me!” bellowed out the giant professor. Some of the students in-front of Harry jumped at the sound.

The foes hear the Veela sing and grow nervous, looking at each other, seeking reassurance, but finding only more questioning, unsure looks.

The undulating cry grew louder as the Veela drew closer. The Death Eaters started shivering, remembering well the dark tales of what Veela did to their enemies.

As the pitch of the song rose ever higher, there was a rank smell as those faint of heart emptied their bladders.

Finally, glints of silvery feathers appeared over the horizon and the Death Eaters started to understand the words.

Nobody knows who started it, but their ranks broke. Soon, a rout was underway, with the slower men being trampled by their compatriots who took no heed of their fallen comrades.

And the it came.

"DIVE!" The lead Veela, a robust woman that had Wagner seen her he would have pronounced her a Valyrie, bellowed. With a piercing wail, the Veela descended on their foes, scorching flames raining from the sky and sharp talons rending flesh.

The lucky Death Eaters perished on that day. The unlucky ones would spend the rest of their lives in Veelas' not very tender mercies.

He wasn’t even sure why they let him go to Hogwarts, not really. He wasn’t like everyone else and everything about the school reminded him of it daily, including his “adjusted curriculum” as the headmaster had called it. Hermione had explained to him that there are talking portraits, an enchanted ceiling in the great hall, and even ghosts that float around the halls. It was all incredibly “magical,” as she had put it, even the annoying moving staircases.

All Harry saw was darkness.

He cherishes the memories he had of the light, like a warm blanket on a cold night, clinging to them as the one thread to a world that no longer was. Not since the accident. Not since the Dursley refused to pay for the surgery that could have saved his eyesight. Not since they refused to even buy him glasses, his dim embers of yore green fire on display for all, lifeless to the world.

It had made most he met uncomfortable, his unfocused eyes, but keeping his head down towards the ground helped, at least most days. He may not share classes with most, but he still dined with them, and that’s when he got the most looks. At least he assumed they were looks, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, unnerving him until it went away, whoever it was having sated their curiosity.

He very much wanted to get back to the common room, to the confines of the dorm, but the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations was a big event, marking the true start of this tournament everyone was so thrilled about. Hermione had narrated their arrival, all pomp and circumstance, but now that everyone had settled he just wanted to go.

“Did you hear me, Harry?” Hermione asked beside him, causing him to look up from his meal, instantly freezing. His eyes widened and he thought he must be dreaming, consciously blinked several times. Blinked!

Behind his friend, a fire had come.

A fire so bright he could see colors dance and fly in the darkness that consumed him. It burned, but had a controlled quality to it, as if the master of the it’s light knew exactly what they were doing.

And it was moving towards him. He swallowed as it stopped, looking up at the light as it swirled in his vision, ebbing and flowing, as if searching before finally settling, shining ever brighter.

“Sorry, are you wanting the Bouillabaisse?” the light spoke.

(A Zelda Story)

Link hopped from the stirrups, landing on the rocky path at the pools edge. He stroked Epona’s face, and she snorted an impatient breath, no doubt smelling the water and dismissing it outright. He kicked off his boots by her side, and dropped his gloves beside them, murmuring a reassuring word before he left her.

The image of the night sky split. Stars stretched away from each other as ripples moved across the surface of the pool, distorting the reflection. Link paced out, disregarding the cool water soaking into his clothes as he waded to the center. At its deepest the pool came to his hips, his fingertips dipped into the water when he held his arms relaxed at his side. He dragged them in random patterns, disrupting the serene cosmos below.

His body ached. The hurts of hard travel, of years of fighting, of neglect in favor of action. He looked up into the cloudless night, sinking into a crouch that brought the water up to his shoulders. The chill arrested his breath for a moment, but it also stole some of the pain, and he breathed easier once he adjusted.

The pool sat in a rocky bowl. The sheer walls rose from the shallows to tower over the hidden spring. Early in the night as it was, the full moon had not yet crested the walls, but as Link lay back to stare up into the heavens, it peeked over the ridge to the east. He lay there, the sound of his breathing magnified in his head by the water filling his ears.

Slowly, over long minutes or hours, the moon climbed higher. It approached its zenith over him and he noticed it before it was truly over head, but paid it little mind. The western wall of the bowl was beginning to glow and that occupied most of his attention. It seemed the rock was made of some form of crystal, dull and uninteresting in the rock face, until it caught the light of the full moon and threw it back into the the night. Spots of light danced across the water, flickering off natural facets in the stone as the moon inched by.

He grew tired of watching the dancing lights and closed his eyes. Floating in the spring water, dense with whatever mineral deposits it picked up on its journey to the surface, he was more buoyant than he should be. He lay back and floated atop it, and the longer he lay the less he felt the water. He could almost forget the last year like that, drifting weightlessly in serene quiet. Almost forgot that it was a year, to the day, since she left. Almost.

He pulled in a deep breath through his nose, deep and full, expanding his chest and stretching tight scars across his torso. He shouldn't have those scars, no ranch hand from a backwater forgotten corner of the kingdom should; but he was glad he did.

Glad he'd been able to help. Glad he'd been enough. Hyrule was safe, and he was glad.

He rolled over, disturbing the calm pool as he shifted to his stomach, face down.

The princess had offered him lordship and land, he'd told her he had a home. She'd offered him money, and he asked what for? The people of the kingdom needed it more than he. She'd offered him whatever he wished, while he stayed in the castle with her, and he'd only stared at her blankly. He did not know what to request of her, he did not know what he wanted. Finally, as he prepared to leave a few weeks later, she'd offered him a place by her side. . [9:08 AM] He could not be king, he knew that and so did she, but he suspected she knew that once he walked out of the palace they would never meet again. He guessed some vestige of her time with her sister princess remained enough to want her to prevent that.

It was certainly what kept him at the palace that long.

It was time to go though. Time to return to the roads and dusty trails of the once great kingdom they both loved. Time to find some new purpose, time to assist in the rebuilding, time to forget.

That was what he was doing here. Forgetting.

Laying face down in this moonlit pool, he let a bubble break free of a nostril, it drifted up his face tickling his cheek on its way to freedom.

He could not forget.

The scars were there, and they paid homage to his journey, his hero’s quest. A constant reminder every time he caught his reflection, every time he stretched and bent, every time he breathed. They were there, reminding him that he was not enough.

He furrowed his brow and sighed, trying to push off the invasive thoughts before they could swarm. It was a lost cause of course. Not a day went by that he was free of them, and they always led to the same place. The perpetual terminus of his hero’s tale. He could see it still in perfect detail, every crack and chip, the light glass dust rising off the shattered portal to his only true home.

He could still see her, the true her, that he’d only just been able to meet. Still hear her voice, muttering a thousand hurtful words and a single loving goodbye. Still feel her hand, smooth and warm cupping his face, small and shaking as it held fast to his fur.

Link could not forget, and he did not want to, because the memories were the only thing worth having now that they were all that was left.

He never even went back home, he couldn’t, because he knew what would happen if he did. He would fall back into life in Ordon with relative ease. The people would accept him, the days would pass by, and every last bit of who he’d become once he got out of his sleepy village would fade away.

He would become Link the ranch hand again, and the only thing left of her would be these scars kept hidden under cloak and tunic. He could not abide that. He could not allow it. He had found something in himself with her aide, found a connection to something larger, older, and infitinately more imptortant than Link the ranch hand.

So he left. Left the palace and left Hyrule. He wandered for a while, with Epona to keep him company, and ‘a while’ carried on as it has a tendency to do. Outside the technical borders of his home things were not so different, it was still hills and valleys, plains and mountains, lakes and rivers, and towns and villages. Sure they didn’t have big grand cities with paved streets and towering castles, but Hyrule had just the one anyway, and the people out there didnt seem to be missing it much.

It was in a village, not so different from Kakariko, that he’d learned of this pool.

Nestled at the base of a mountain that was not Death Mountain, but had some such similar ominous name to the people there. He was just passing through, when he decided to stop for the night, and a kindly innkeeper had offered to stable Epona so he could visit their bathhouse. In the steam and soothing waters he’d found a wizened old shaman, the village elder, that seemed more wrinkle than skin these days.

He’d told Link to come here, said he was troubled, and they had a solution for troubles in this village. Link could not deny the elder’s claim, and he didnt have much in the way of direction otherwise, so he’d taken the old man’s advice.

He sighed again, relieved he’d at least managed to curtail his thoughts before they started conjuring images of her. He rolled his shoulders, rewarded with snaps and pops from his neck and took a deep breath.

Then he remembered that he was supposed to be face down in a pool of water and his eyes flew open.

The sky was a wash of violet and orange, and the full moon overhead was absent. He flailed wildly, splashing the pool in his haste to get his feet under him as his heart jumped into overdrive.

Epona was not on the side of the pool where he’d left her, but apart from that the little bowl the spring sat in was identical. Well, apart from the fucking sky at least.

He put that out of his mind for the time being, because he recognized that sky, and it was best to deal with things one at a time. Epona was gone, he had to get down the mountain and back to that village, there would be answers there surely.

He’d made it to the edge of the pool before he caught sight of his hand and it brought him to a halt in the shallows. Smooth, unblemished, gray skin stretched across his palms and disappeared up the sodden sleeve of his tunic. The scar on the middle knuckle, from a Moblin’s scimitar jumping off his blade and splitting it, shown white.

He could only blink at his new hands, and then look back up at the sky above him again, and he rocked back on his heels as it felt as if his chest was caving in in the best possible way. As he looked down the mountain to the strange landscape below he allowed himself, for the first time in a year, to draw unlabored breath and whisper:

”Midna…”

“I’m in trouble.” Those painful words were uttered by Harry. He couldn’t talk normally, because of everwatching madam Pince, who always kicked students from the library for being noisy. Her “noisy level threshold” was always an undefined number. “Care to elaborate?” That was his best friend, ironically, a Slytherin. Currently writing additional essay on Runes. Be that as it may, Alessandro Renera was a complicated person. But loyal, what’s more fun, being a snake. “The Yule Ball is up. Professor MacGonagall said, that I’ve got to open the dance.” The sound of feather scratching the parchment stopped. “So?” “I can’t dance!” Harry tried to put as much conviction to the heated whisper as he could. Alex finally tore his eyes of the parchment and looked up to his friend. Harry cursed mentally – Alex’s unnatural purple eyes were always cold and calculating, showing the power and menace of the person. A lot of people tried to humiliate Renera for one or other things. They tried to break him, convince, that associating with Harry Potter is the biggest mistake ever. Didn’t work, since most of them were brutally and painfully sent to the Hospital Wing. Mostly intact. But the lesson was learned. “I don’t see a problem. A lot of girls would go with you.” Alex placed the feather into the inkpot. “They’d love to ‘bag The-Boy-Who-Lived’”. “That’s the thing. I don’t want to go with those people.” Heavy sigh escaped from Harry’s mouth. “I want to go with someone who sees me as me, Harry James Potter…” “A Gryffindor Fourth Year student, amazing seeker et cetera.” Alex waved his hand dismissively. “I get it.” “Be quiet, please.” Said the third occupant of their table. “I’m almost done.” “Yes, Daphne.” Boys said in unison, causing Daphne Greengrass to groan and look piercingly on them. They decided to talk even quieter.

“Who you’re taking to the ball, Mr. Girl Specialist?” Harry wasn’t new to sarcasm, being around Renera for long. The answer was quick. “Daphne. Right, honey?” Alex smiled to the girl, who didn’t catch their conversation and mouthed ‘What?’. Harry laughed a little. Daphne didn’t care about any of Renera’s menacing features, whether his eyes or the bionic arm, which replaced his left arm completely down from elbow. Traffic accident in the childhood, as Alex said dismissively, and the best Soviet technology money could buy. Daphne simply saw Alex as normal person. Even sometimes beating him into the submission. But Harry was sure, that if they were enemies, the fight between Alex and Daphne would be brutal and long. “What if I point you to the dancing teacher and you’ll take it from there?” Alex’s eyes were showing his mirth. And some craziness, that only Black blood could show. Harry tensed, but braced himself. ‘Gryffindors charge forward’. “Alright. Who?” “See for yourself.” Alex nodded in the direction of the library’s entrance. Harry followed his gaze, and his heart skipped a beat. A vision of pure beauty and perfection was walking towards them. “Bonjour, Sandro, Daphne, ‘Arry.” She said with a pleasant purr. Daphne finally tore her gaze out of her essay and smiled. “Hello, Fleur.” “How ya doin’?” Alex nearly missed Daphne’s pointed elbow to his ribs for being himself. Daphne silently threatened to castrate him for umpteenth time in this year. “Sorry. May I inquire the state and condition of this fine lady?” Fleur laughed a little. “I’m fine, thank you. But I feel an uneasiness. Something’s wrong?” Alex wanted to open his mouth to answer, but Daphne’s tactically placed elbow to his ribs destroyed his plans. “Morgana’s fucking balls, that hurts, Daph!” That, of course, managed to point madam Pince to their direction and silently promise their brutal demise if they won’t be quiet.

Some books have existed for many centuries almost unchanged, wizards that have tried to change such books are quickly reviled and thus no change happens, after all, such books, the history within, are like preserved artifacts. But, who is to say they have all the information from when it was created? It is a good thing to always assume that there is missing information from them. One only can hope that said information won't be needed in the future.

Extract from Hogwarts: A History, 3rd edition -Edited by Dillard Fiddlewood Editor's note: Removed the part about the castle supposedly having sentience or that it can take charge if its inhabitants are threatened. Bah! Such nonsense must have been thought by some mud-ggleborn, evidenced by the author's name. There's no proof of anything like this!

(...) It's been said in times past that, even if the castle is not as old as other castles, such as the legendary Slytherin's Keep, or Godric's Castle, Hogwarts has attained a higher level of ambient magic than those previously mentioned. Some people think that perhaps Camelot or Avalon had a castle like this, but that is something a Lovegood could probably research. Coming back on topic, Hogwarts got such level of magic thanks to the people who live on it, the teachers, house-elves and the students constantly casting magic, leaving traces of magic on every single rock of the castle. It is a theory that his caused some strange phenomena, such as the moving staircases, since there is no evidence nor registry of any of the Founders enchanting them like that. . It's been two hundred years since the last Founder passed away, and since then it has always been said that the castle, the school, is one of the safest, if not the most, place in all of the country. But how does this relates to what was previously mentioned? It is the opinion of this writer that, should the inhabitants of the castle be in danger, by either forces attacking the castle itself, or from someone within, if the Lord of the Castle -now called Headmaster- does not take action, the castle itself will, and if it does, it will find the previously mentioned Headmaster in abeyance of his duties, and will enact its own safety measures. I can only hope that if this ever happens, that it is soon, for the more time it passes by, the castle will receive more magic, and perhaps its response will be far more harsher. --Addition by Alvin Beddington

Of all the grand sights I have seen and known, For which youthful deference bade me lose, It is only you, I would have wished shown, And only you, my soul would gladly choose, From my guileless hand, arcane fires surge forth And boundless light blooms against aching dark, By your sweetest fire, I find my home hearth, For that fire, lonely night I embark, But, my flower, you do join in my search, Your hand, your touch, makes loneliness no more, With you, no step brought stretch, no yard a lurch, In your touch, I do not struggle; I soar. The sight of you is blessing beyond word, But to love you, is the wonder preferred.

“Good evening Miss Delacour,” Harry began, amidst the polite hush of the party he had decided that they were to attend. “I apologise for asking you to accompany me on such short notice, but I fear that I had little other choice.”

“It’s quite alright, ‘Arry,” Fleur told him, her mouth curving into the smallest of smiles. Harry watched her watch him, her eyes tracing the path that nearly-everyone he spoke with did. First the scar, then the eyes, then the hair and then back to his eyes. Some hovered over the grey that had begun to streak into his hair in recent years, though most did not. “Anything for an old friend.”

They met in a brief embrace. Familiar, unextended. Fleur kissed both of his cheeks, as she always did, and Harry’s right arm dropped to her waist comfortably. Their heights, especially with her heels, brought the pair of them to eye-level with one another.

“I must confess, however, that I do not know why it is that you invited me here,” Fleur continued, her voice even. “Stockholm is magnificent, but if you wished for us to catch up, there are more convenient places.”

Harry heard the implication in her words. Two famous divorcees, drifting away from their home countries together. The press would have a field day if the word were to get out that such a thing was happening. Harry Potter seduced by the veela Fleur Delacour, her wretched beauty darkening his pure heart, they would say.

Harry grinned for a moment; he looked ten years younger when he did. “I’m not so sure that I need a great reason to see you, beyond meeting an old friend,” he said. His hand pressed gently against her waist, guiding her to walk with him away from the foyer and into the ballroom of the Hotel of the Magi. The ballroom was neither tasteful nor refined in design, wearing its wealth like a peacock wore its plumage. “However, if you require one, my initial interest was due to a charm that you had designed.”

They walked toward the west of the ballroom, where the evening’s band played upon a small stage. The noise became irritatingly loud as they did so, and so Harry drew Fleur closer to him so that they might hear one-another when they talked. “Which one?”

“I seem to recall a dinner I had attended once, with you and Gabrielle. I remember long silences, though neither you or her seemed to be greatly bothered by them,” Harry said, amused. With the barest touch of her wand, the spell was cast over the pair of them without a word spoken by Fleur to do so. Where once passing glances lingered over the pair of them, they drifted immediately into the periphery. “A wonderfully subtle piece of magic.”

“You brought me, here, for subtlety, Monsieur?” Fleur asked, her eyebrow raised, her look catching Harry’s eye sharply. He tilted his head, and the pair moved away from the band and into the centre of the hall. There was to be no meal at the event and so where there ought to have been a banquet table, there was an empty space for the denizens to dance. There were not many there that were partaking, but the night had only just begun.

“Something like that,” Harry agreed. “How is Gabi, by the way?”

“She still only dates dark-haired Englishmen, if that is what you were curious about,” Fleur told him. The rhythm of the music was slow, though in its slowness it began to take hold of the pair of them and soon they began to sway to it. They did not dance, but they were not still, either. “Truthfully, I think you would find her company preferable to my own this evening.”

“She is too young.”

“She is twenty-nine, ‘Arry,” Fleur argued, bemused. “Surely you would grow tired of such a poor excuse by now, non?”

“If I were not me, that might be true,” Harry told her, with a note of finality in his voice. “However, I do doubt that she will ever stop being too young.”

“So you brought me here for maturity?” asked Fleur. “Because, if that were true, you find yourself among rare company. There are few people that look toward one such as myself and hope for age, rather than youth.”

Her words held truth. She was thirty-nine and she was still as youthful in her image as she had been at twenty. There were exceptions to this, however. Her skin never aged, but her eyes did, their depths holding the truth of her lifetime. She had seen just as much as Harry had, and she had done so at an age too young, just as Harry had.

He met her eyes, for a moment. They shared a look, as they had done before in the dying days of their previous relationships. They had both been set on a journey toward ruin, yet neither held the power to prevent it and so all they could hope to do was watch the doom happen and hope that no-one else was caught within it.

Their hopes were successful, in the end, though that did not help either of them. Ginny was married again, her marriage giving her two children and the wealthiest husband in Britain. Bill had formed his own curse-breaking outfit with his own new spouse, an Irishwoman from Cork.

“I had hoped, for once, to spend an evening with another and be able to look into their eyes and not feel ancient,” Harry told her, amidst their locked gaze. “I cannot talk to someone of my own country without feeling like Albus Dumbledore, and I cannot talk to one outside of it without feeling as though I’m talking to a child.”

“Your country is not the only one that has faced war as of late,” Fleur commented. Despite the presence the pair of them offered, they were left well alone amongst those that attended. “I’m sure the people of Poland would not take kindly to your viewing of their conflict being child’s play.”

“I can’t imagine they would,” Harry agreed. “But, given that Poland is currently locked down, I do doubt I would find a great number of their people to spend an evening with.”

“And if it were not?” Fleur probed further. “If it were not locked down?”

“If it were not locked down, I still would’ve chosen you,” Harry told her, bringing about a brief smile from her. “If you wanted me to compliment you for an evening, you need only say the word.”

Fleur shook her head. “I am curious, is all,” she defended. “You cannot expect me to be invited to an event such as this, by a man such as you at a place such as this and accept it without question.”

“Then, instead of you asking me a thousand questions, I would ask one of you, as currently we seem to be getting nowhere?” Harry asked. Fleur’s hand slid up an inch or so up his back, before she pushed against his spine, bringing the pair together so that her jaw almost rested upon his shoulder. When Fleur nodded for Harry to continue, her cheekbone met his for a moment. “Why is it that you accepted my invitation here?”

“As I said; curiosity.”

“Then allow me, if you would, to appeal to your curiosity,” Harry said. “I will offer you three reasons as to why it is you are here tonight. They are all true. After I do so, I’ll allow you to choose which one that you most believe, and that will decide the course that the evening will take.”

A hum left Fleur. “I will admit that I am curious,” she told Harry. “And given that I am already here, I feel I ought to make the most of it,” Fleur sighed, her body settling against his. “Continue.”

“The first reason is perhaps the most straight forward,” Harry began. “I want to sleep with you.”

Fleur stilled in his arms. “I did not take you to be so forward, ‘Arry,” she said, quietly. He could hear the slight disappointment in her words. “Though it seems a great deal of effort, and money, for that reason alone. At least it would be for a man such as you.”

“You underestimate yourself, Fleur.”

“I do not think I do,” she insisted, the rhythm of the music returning to their dancing. “When you left Ginny, you did not take another lover for some time, even as every woman that you came across, single or otherwise, offered themselves to you.”

“Had you been one of them, I might well have said yes,” Harry replied. Fleur laughed quietly. “I am ruled by my own base instincts, just as everyone else.”

Fleur laughed again. Harry preferred the sound to the orchestra. “That is not true at all,” she told him. “If you were driven by lust or fear or greed then you would not be the man that you are. You are more selfless than any other man alive, that I promise.”

“And you are more tempting than any other woman,” Harry asserted. “A woman most beautiful with a mind most brilliant. Surely, if there were anyone in the world that I might forego my character for, it would be you.”

“I am not the woman you paint me as, ‘Arry. If I were as irresistible as you claim, I would not be available for you to court.”

“You’re suggesting that it is your fault that your marriage failed?” Harry asked, smiling. “I seem to recall that you left Bill and not the other way around.”

Fleur’s hand travelled further up his back, until her hand rested upon the nape of his neck. Her nails dug into his skin painlessly, the action alerting more than threatening. “It is hard to remain in a marriage that neither party wishes to be in, especially without a reason to stay in it.”

“It’s hard to remain in a marriage that you begin at twenty in the shadow of a war,” furthered Harry. “However, none of my reasons for inviting you here are for the two of us to complain about our failures at marriage.”

“I do not truly believe that one of your reasons is to take me to bed, either.”

Harry pulled back slightly, to allow himself to look at Fleur properly. “You don’t think I want to?”

Fleur met his eyes. A moment passed between them.

“I know you want to,” Fleur told him, her eyes startling. For a moment, her beauty overwhelmed her charm, and eyes began to pass over her, their gaze hungry and base, before she remembered herself. “But you have never allowed yourself to have me before; I do not see how tonight will be any different.”

“I was not aware that you had any interest.”

“And who’s to say that I do?” Fleur asked, her eyes flicking down to the ground for the briefest of seconds, before they looked to him again. “However, we are not discussing my own interests, but yours,” her thumb passed over the nape of neck. “Now, as it is clear you have no desire to indulge in pleasures of the flesh, which pleasures do you intend to indulge in?”

“You are rushing, Fleur,” Harry smiled. “Don’t allow your curiosity to make you dull.”

“Spoken by a man who begins by announcing his intention to bed me. You are casting stones inside a very boorish glass house, mon chéri,” mocked Fleur, settling into his arms again. “Very well, if you wish to tease me, I shall allow you to.”

“With pleasure,” said Harry, his words smooth, before his voice returned to its familiar passing. “The second reason is perhaps the most interesting.”

“That speaks volumes either to the quality of your reason, or the quality of yourself, given the first reason.”

“I hope the latter,” Harry’s words were light, though the gaze of his eyes hardened. He left Fleur for the first moment in many, scanning the crowd until they fixated suddenly. “Do you recall an Antonin Dolohov?”

“He was a follower of Voldemort, non?” Harry nodded. “I recall that Professor Flitwick defeated him in the war.”

“By all accounts, he charmed the plates and pans of Hogwarts to bury the man alive, then severed his right leg at the knee and his right arm at the elbow. He was a vicious man, Professor Flitwick,” Harry told her, his eyes still distant. “However, after the fighting ended, he was trialled and sent to Azkaban, however he managed to escape in part due to his own mastery of defensive enchantments and wards.”

To be more specific, he had escaped due to a philosophical fault of Azkaban. The prison was first a home for the dementors, and then it was a prison for the evil and the damned. There had been little need for other forces to contain its prisoners when it was assumed that the dementors would always remain at their home. After their dismissal, the ministry had of course placed their own restrictions upon the prison, but there had been the briefest of windows where the lack of said restriction was to be exploitable.

Of course, Antonin Dolohov passed through that window.

“In the chaos that was Britain after the war, Dolohov managed to flee the country entirely. He returned to the country of his birth; Bulgaria, under a new name,” Fleur had stilled in his arms at the mention of ‘Bulgaria’. “The ministry there were more forgiving of his beliefs and put him to use, designing their wards.”

“Was it your intention to remind me of the vile magic that my grandmother’s country is doing to my people?” Fleur asked, her voice quiet, though they carried with them the edge of a distant storm. “The poison their wards inflict on my blood?”

“My intention was to offer you the chance at vengeance, for your people,” Harry explained. “If I were to offer you an hour with the man responsible for that evil, how would you spend it?”

“He would not last an hour,” Fleur hissed. “He would not be a man after an hour, either.”

“It is a good thing that Dolohov has taken such great efforts to make himself not exist, then,” Harry’s eyes glinted sharply behind his glasses. “By the records of our ministry, and thus the records of the ICW, Antonin Dolohov is dead. To all but the few who know the truth, he was killed in his attempt to escape Azkaban. And there are no laws to protect dead men from violence, least of all evil, dead men.”

“And you would offer me the choice, to do as I wish?” Fleur asked. “To take back what was taken?”

What was taken, by Dolohov and his enchantments, was life itself. For every Veela that passed through his ward, they would lose their fertility. An entire generation of Veela had been lost in Bulgaria; not a single one born in over a decade.

“His fate is in your hands, his life yours to end,” Harry assured. “You could allow me to take him to England where he would be re-imprisoned or you could take him to the Queen of your people for her to punish however she sees fit. It is your choice.”

Fleur stopped still, on the tiles of the ballroom.

“You would give me this freely?” Harry nodded. “You know what this would do for my family?”

“Your grandmother would be allowed to return to the kingdom of her home,” Harry voiced. “Perhaps, in time, you might be able to, too, though I cannot promise that.”

There was a reason that partial-veela were so rare, after all, and it had little to do with a limited desire for their creation. Veela were, by culture, insular. Untrustworthy of those that did not share their blood and aware of what might happen to beings as beautiful as they were, their allure a defence, rather than a skill.

Such was their aversion to others that, for some of their tribes, to produce an offspring with a human was tantamount to treason against their people. And, unfortunately, Fleur’s grandmother belonged to one such tribe. After the birth of Fleur’s mother, she had been forced to leave her family and never return.